


Time For A Sign

by eternaleponine



Series: Ghosts That We Knew [7]
Category: The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, Gen, Warning: Suicide Attempt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2017-12-25 10:01:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 65
Words: 185,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/951779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/pseuds/eternaleponine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Stop waiting, start taking control</i><br/><i>Your life's on the line.</i><br/><i>Stop looking, I'm right here</i><br/><i>It's not a sign of the times.</i><br/><i>It's time for a sign.</i><br/>- William Beckett, Time for a Sign</p><p> <b>Avengers High School AU</b></p><p>This is the continuation of the story begun in <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/531381/chapters/942536">Ghosts That We Knew</a>.  I strongly recommend reading that story first, as it establishes many of the main characters and their relationships.</p><p>Rating, Warnings, and Tags subject to change as the story progresses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Natasha swatted Clint's arm, telling him to move aside without a word because he'd forgotten to put his hearing aids back on. They'd had the house to themselves all afternoon, and who could blame them for taking advantage? 

_You're in my way,_ she told him. 

_Well **excuse** me,_ he replied, grinning, but shifted over so she could get into the cabinet that he'd been standing in front of. It still seemed strange to him sometimes how she'd settled in to this place, how she acted as if she belonged here, as if this was her home.

But it was, wasn't it? Yeah, it was still the principal's house, but she'd lived here for months now, and Mr. Fury had helped her through a pretty rough couple of weeks over the summer, so it made sense that she would be at least a little more comfortable here than she had been at first. 

Even so, home was still a word that Clint associated more with people than with places. He watched her as she dumped flour into the mixing bowl, and yeast, and whatever else went into pizza dough, and set it to mixing. She kept an eye on it as she cleaned up the counter, tidily efficient as always... until he distracted her, and she let herself be distracted.

A second later she broke the kiss, shoving him back harder than she'd meant to (he hoped) and taking half a step in front of him like she meant to put herself between him and something else. He touched her arm, but she didn't turn to look at him. 

"What's happening?" he asked, remembering that he could talk even if he couldn't hear her response. 

_Two cars in the driveway, and voices._ She edged toward the door, moving like she wanted to see without being seen, and Clint had certainly done the same thing before but it felt wrong watching her do it in her own house, in the space that she'd seemed to own only moments before.

"Fury?" he asked, dropping his voice to a whisper.

_Maybe._ She took another step, her hand held out behind her but he wasn't sure if it was meant to caution him to stay back or whether she was reaching for him to follow. He decided it was the latter and moved with her, wishing he could hear what was happening, or at least see, but the angle was impossible and there were shades on the windows that obstructed the view. 

_I can't see,_ he told her. 

_Neither can I._ But whatever she heard was enough to have her shove into him, pushing him back into the kitchen. She reached for a knife and had it half out of the block before she stopped herself. Her hand was still on it, though, when Mr. Fury came around the corner.

His eyebrows went up, and he said something to her. She let go of the knife, and Clint tapped her arm, looking for some kind of explanation. 

_Sorry,_ Natasha signed. "I hear voices. I not know who is there," Natasha said, signing it at the same time so that Clint wasn't shut out of the conversation anymore. 

"You didn't look?" Mr. Fury asked, and she signed that too.

"If I look, maybe who is there sees. If is not you..." She shrugged. 

Mr. Fury pinched the bridge of his nose like he was fighting off a headache. "All right, Natasha. I think your dough—"

But Clint didn't know what he thought the dough was, because Natasha stopped signing, turning away to go switch off the mixer. 'Done' must have been the missing piece. She peeled the dough from the hook and put it in a bowl with oil so it wouldn't stick, then put it in the oven to rise. She reset the timer, keeping her back to the rest of the kitchen even after it started ticking down.

Clint came up beside her and touched her elbow. She flinched away, and then looked at him with an apologetic frown. _I'm going to go get my hearing aids,_ he told her. 

_I'll come with you._

When they turned to go to her room, they both noticed what they'd somehow missed before: they weren't alone. Standing in the kitchen doorway, half-hidden in the shadows of the hall, was a girl, watching them with what seemed to be a mix of suspicion and... well, mostly suspicion. Whatever else was in her dark eyes, Clint couldn't read. 

"Natasha, Clint, this is Jessica," Mr. Fury said, and Natasha signed. "Jessica... you can come in."

She took another step into the room. She had long dark hair, and she was dressed in a blouse and skirt that looked like they belonged in some kind of western movie or something. She clutched the straps of a bag so hard her knuckles were white. 

"Jessica, this is Natasha and Clint. Natasha lives here. Clint doesn't, although it may seem like he does a lot of the time."

"Hey," Clint said, figuring someone ought to say something and the girls were just looking past each other. "Uh, nice to meet you."

Jessica looked at him then, her eyes narrowing, but she said nothing. Mr. Fury looked like his headache was intensifying. He said something that Natasha didn't interpret, and then gestured toward the stairs. Jessica turned and headed for them, so whatever it was must have been aimed at her.

_Who is that?_ , Clint asked. 

_I don't know,_ Natasha replied. _You know as much as I do._

It bothered her, not knowing, and Clint couldn't really blame her. He couldn't imagine suddenly having someone new show up at the Sullivans; he knew that it had thrown all of the younger boys for a loop when he'd shown up, although he'd been too caught up in his own stuff to really care.  
 _Do you think she's staying?_

Natasha shrugged. _I don't know why she would be here if she's not._

_I'm sorry,_ Clint said. 

_Why? It's not your fault._

_I know. But you were getting used to how things are and now they've changed and that sucks._

She shrugged again, but Clint could see the tension all through her. He held out his hand, not sure if she wanted to be touched or not and not willing to get it wrong when she was already stressed. She looked at it, then at him, and shook her head. He let his hand drop.

Mr. Fury came back into the room. "Thank you for getting dinner started," he said, and Natasha remembered to interpret without prompting. "I'm sorry that I couldn't give you more warning about Jessica, but I didn't have any either. It was an... unexpected situation that came up."

"Like with Natasha?" Clint asked.

"Something like that," Mr. Fury said. 

"How long is she staying?" Natasha asked.

"As long as she needs to." He looked at her, then at Clint, then back at Natasha. "I hope that you'll make her feel welcome." Although Clint couldn't hear the tone of his voice, there was something in the set of his jaw that made him believe that it was... not a threat, but a very strong suggestion.

"He's still staying," Natasha said, jerking her chin in Clint's direction, and her jaw was set too, like she was getting ready to do battle.

"I didn't say he couldn't," Mr. Fury said, looking like the headache that was brewing had finally sunk its claws into his brain. "Why don't you two go upstairs for a little bit?" Another very strong suggestion.

They didn't argue or ask any more questions. They just retreated to Natasha's room. She shut and locked the door behind her, and this time when Clint held out his hand she slid into his arms and held on. He stroked her back, trying to soothe the tension away. "It's okay," he told her, even though he didn't really know if it would be or not. 

She let go of him and went over to the bed, flopping down on it. _I knew things were going too smoothly._

He sat down next to her. _It could be worse,_ he pointed out. _It could be Devon. Or Kevin. Or Connor._

Her mouth quirked. _They're not **that** bad._

_You don't live with them!_ He caught her hand and squeezed it, and she tugged him down and kissed him hard. At least she was smiling again; he counted that as a win. By the time they were called back downstairs to finish making dinner, she was mostly calm again, although there was still something a little careful, a little brittle in the way that she moved, and he didn't like seeing it when he'd thought they were past all of that.

Clint saw that Jessica's door was cracked open, and he saw that she was watching them as they passed. A few minutes later, she followed them down. He looked up from where he was stretching the dough while Natasha got out the sauce and cheese. "Hey," he said. Mr. Fury had told them to be nice, after all.

"Hey," she replied. Her eyebrows drew together as she watched him. She stayed at the opposite end of the table, leaning against it. "What are you doing?"

"Stretching the pizza dough," he said. "Usually Natasha does it, but I guess she's feeling magnet... magma... shit, what's the word?"

"Magnanimous," Natasha supplied. "Or maybe I just lose mind."

Clint stuck out his tongue at her. "I've never messed up pizza!" He flashed a grin at Jessica. "She doesn't trust me in the kitchen."

"You forget what happen when we make cupcake?" Natasha asked.

"It said medium speed! The mixer goes to ten, and five is halfway to ten! How was I supposed to know that medium is, like, two?!"

"I think is still chocolate on ceiling."

"There's not really," Clint said when he saw Jessica glance up. "She made sure I cleaned it."

"Why were you..." Jessica started to ask, then stopped herself. 

"It was for a friend's birthday," Clint said, assuming that she'd been going to ask why they'd been making cupcakes. "I'm great at frosting." Natasha screwed up her face and Clint laughed. "She doesn't agree. Good?" He lifted the edge of the pizza pan to show her.

"Good," she agreed. "Maybe old dog can learn new trick."

"Are you calling me old?" he asked, reaching out to poke her. She dodged and pulled the pizza pan over to her side of the table, spooning sauce onto the crust and spreading it around. 

"What are you?" Jessica asked, looking at Natasha, almost staring.

Natasha looked up sharply. "What I am?" she asked. "What you mean, what I am?"

"I mean—" But Jessica didn't seem sure what she meant under Natasha's glare, and Clint could see her starting to bristle back rather than backing down. He didn't know her well enough (read: _at all_ ) to have an idea how far she would go, but he knew Natasha, and she was tense enough that she might not just let this one go.

He rapped his knuckles on the edge of the table, drawing her attention. _Your accent,_ he signed. _Maybe._

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "You mean where I am from?" she asked Jessica.

"Yes," Jessica said. 

"Russia. I am from Russia."

"Oh." If that meant anything to Jessica, if it gave her any ideas of who or what Natasha was, she gave no indication.

"Why? What you are?" 

Jessica shrugged. "Nothing anymore."

Clint looked at her, saw Natasha studying her, and the conversation ended there. Not because they weren't still curious about the new arrival, but because her answer was the kind of answer that begged two things: to be pried into, and to be left alone. And they weren't prying types. 

"You want more than cheese on your pizza?" Clint asked. Mr. Fury must have mixed up a second batch of dough while they were upstairs, because there was enough for two pans. Good thinking, he had to concede, because with three teenagers in the house one pizza wasn't going to be enough. 

Jessica shrugged. "I don't care."

"You can have anything you find," Natasha said, pointing towards the refrigerator, then reached without looking and swatted Clint's hand as he stole a pinch of cheese from the bag. "Stop."

"Too late," he said, dumping it into his mouth. 

"Don't mind him," Natasha said, rolling her eyes. "He is raise in barn."

"Not in a barn," Clint said. "Come on, give me some credit. I was raised in the circus!"

Natasha snorted a laugh. It was funny because it was true, but Jessica didn't know that. 

"What's—" But the dark-haired girl stopped herself again, crossing her arms as if to hold something in. She watched them without seeming to watch, and the silence in the room was awkward. Normally he and Natasha would have been talking, out loud or signing depending on whether they had their hands full, but conversation was awkward when there was a third person involved that they didn't know how to include, and signing would have excluded her completely, and probably seemed deliberate. 

"What grade are you in?" Clint asked, just to have something to say.

"I'll be a junior, I guess," Jessica replied. "Why?"

"Just curious. We're juniors, too."

"Where you go to school before?" Natasha asked. 

"I was homeschooled," Jessica told her. 

Clint smirked. "Homeschooled for real or quote-unquote homeschooled?"

"I don't know what you mean," Jessica replied, pulling her arms in tighter against her chest.

"Don't worry about it," Clint said. "I was trying to make a joke. I guess. I was quote-unquote homeschooled – meaning I learned to read, write, add and subtract and that's about it, but my parents got papers saying that they were teaching me shit." He shrugged. "Makes life interesting when suddenly you're stuck in a classroom with a bunch of people who know how to do all this kind of thing and you're like, 'Yeah, but do you know how to rig a trapeze?'"

She just stared at him blankly, and Clint shrugged. "School sucks, but you get used to it," he summed up.

They ate dinner in the living room in front of the TV like they normally did, which drew a look of complete consternation from Jessica. Clint wasn't sure why, but he wasn't going to ask. Afterward, there was ice cream, and the fact that there were different choices of flavor seemed to throw her, too.

But he didn't ask. No one asked. Maybe Mr. Fury knew, but he wasn't talking (and they wouldn't have wanted him too, no matter how curious they were, because they wouldn't want him spilling their secrets to anyone). 

And then it was time for bed (or at least they'd all had enough togetherness for the evening) and Clint followed Natasha upstairs. He could practically feel Jessica's eyes boring into his back as he went, and yeah, okay, he could get that, but he wasn't about to try and explain. 

They didn't talk about her, even when the door was closed and even when there was no possible way for her to overhear. They didn't need to talk about it to know that they were thinking the same thing: something was strange about this girl. But who were they to talk about strange? They would figure her out eventually, or they wouldn't, and what was it to them one way or another? 

Later, Natasha got up to brush her teeth, and when she came back she was frowning. _She didn't know she could lock her door,_ she told him. _She didn't know how._

_How...?_ He didn't even know how to ask the question, or what the question he wanted to ask was.

_She asked me if it was safe. I told her yes. Then she asked 'what if' but didn't finish. She was looking towards the stairs, whispering. I told her never, but said she could lock her door if it would make her feel better. She didn't know how._

Which told them something about Jessica and where she'd come from, but Clint wasn't going to try and puzzle out exactly what tonight. Because what he mostly heard in the unspoken words, in all of the spaces in between them, was Natasha remembering a time that was still too close for comfort, when there was no way to lock out the things that made her feel unsafe.

It would be a long night for both of them. At least they weren't alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, my darlings, because I am impatient, here it is! Complete with the first of the new characters!
> 
> Hopefully I didn't lose anyone in the shuffle, but if you happen to feel like signal boosting the heck out of this to anyone you know who might have been following Ghosts (or anyone you think should read that and then read this...) I would love you forever. (Not that I don't already. I do. You have no idea.) ♥


	2. Chapter 2

During homeroom on Wednesday, Clint received a pass to go to Mr. Coulson's office that afternoon. He found Natasha, and without having to say a word she rolled her eyes and nodded. She'd gotten one too. Which meant that Tony and Bruce and Loki probably had as well. Mr. Coulson wasn't letting the whole 'peer leadership' group or whatever he'd wanted to call it (and when had any of them led anything?) go. 

Truth was, Clint was kind of glad. It was going to be different without Steve and Thor there, but he'd gotten kind of used to the weekly meetings. They'd become part of his routine; a chance to decompress and not have to deal with teachers and homework and trying to force himself to focus when half the time he had no clue what was going on either because he was missing all of the build-up that everyone else had gotten over the past decade of their lives or because he couldn't hear what was going on. 

At least he had Natasha in some of his classes. English, Chemistry, and gym, and they were going to see about working some kind of independent study out again but they weren't sure they were going to be able to convince Mr. Coulson this time. 

The meeting was set for after lunch (which they also had together, thankfully) and when they came inside after their only slightly out-of-bounds picnic, they found Jessica standing in the lobby outside the principal's office, staring at a piece of paper in her hand and scowling.

Natasha approached her, careful to make sure the other girl saw her before getting too close. As far as Clint could tell, and from what Natasha had told him, they were still giving each other a pretty wide berth most of the time. Mr. Fury hadn't said anything to her about it, other than his initial _suggestion_ to make her feel welcome, so she figured he'd known even before taking Jessica in that they weren't exactly going to be BFFs from the word go.

"You have one too?" she asked, showing Jessica her pass. "Come."

She didn't wait for Jessica to acknowledge it in any way, just turned and started off in the direction of Mr. Coulson's office. Clint glanced back and saw that Jessica was following, a few steps behind and still looking like she would rather be anywhere than where she was.

"What's this about?" she asked when they got to the door.

Natasha shrugged. "Just come in."

"I don't need another social worker," Jessica said. "This is—" But she stopped herself, shook her head, her frown deepening. 

"Talk to Mr. Fury if you think you don't belong," Natasha said. "Otherwise, just be happy you are out of class for little while." She pushed open the door and stepped inside. Clint waited for Jessica to enter before letting the door shut behind them. He thought he heard Jessica grumble something about 'tried that' before she threw herself down on the couch, glaring daggers at no one in particular.

Tony and Bruce were already there, and Tony had been talking about something at a pace that Clint had never been able to follow. He stopped abruptly when he saw that not only was there a stranger in their midst, but that she'd committed the cardinal sin of Sitting In Clint and Natasha's Spot.

For his part, Clint didn't care. He sat down at the opposite end, and Natasha sat between them, close enough to Clint that they were touching, but not so close that it looked like anything more than two friends sitting next to each other. Not that everyone didn't know, and not that anyone would care, but their thing was _theirs_ and old habits died hard when it came to letting it show to just anyone.

Mr. Coulson came in with an incredibly disgruntled-looking Loki and shut the door. "Welcome back, everyone," he said. "Or just welcome, for those who are just joining us." He smiled at Jessica. She didn't smile back. "I see that everyone survived the first day of school. Congratulations." That earned him a mix of laughter and grumbling, which only seemed to make him smile more. "In even better news, you're off again tomorrow for Rosh Hashanah, so you already get a break." He clasped his hands, rubbing them together. "I know that most of you already know each other, but why don't we go around and do introductions anyway? Name, grade, what you're interested in or what you did this summer, and anything else you'd like to share with the group. Why don't we start with you?" He pointed to Bruce.

"I started last year," Bruce grumbled, but he was trying not to smile. He pushed his glasses up his nose. "My name is Bruce. I'm a senior. I like science, and I spent most of the summer at a camp at MIT, trying to make sure that Tony didn't blow anything up." 

"Hey!" Tony said, jabbing him in the side with an elbow. "I resemble that remark!" He straightened up and cleared his throat, making a motion like he was straightening a tie or something. "I'm Tony Stark. I am officially a senior, even though I was a sophomore last year, and I am once again taking classes at a local college several afternoons a week. Like Bruce said, we spent the summer at MIT, and I won the award for Biggest Nerd at Nerd Camp with my end-of-summer project." He bowed. 

Clint thought Loki was going to dislocate an eyeball, and Mr. Coulson had to remind him that it was his turn. "I'm Loki. I'm a junior this year. I went to theater camp this summer, and unfortunately had to come back just in time to listen to my parents get all emotional over their son going off to college. It was sickening. He sends his regards to all of you, by the way. In case you care."

The fact that he actually passed along Thor's greeting to the group at all made Clint think that maybe his missed his brother more than he wanted to let on. He knew what it was like to harbor that kind of ambivalence toward your family; he had to shake away thoughts of Barney as his turn came up.

"I'm Clint, I'm a junior, and I spent the summer working at a day camp with Steve, which sucked pretty much as much as you'd expect, dealing with a bunch of kids outside in the heat, but hey, it was decent money. And I got my permit so I can get my license when I turn eighteen in October. So if anyone hears about any cheap used cars for sale, let me know." He grinned.

Natasha glanced at him to make sure that he was done, then said, "Natasha. I am junior, and I also work at camp over summer." She shrugged and looked at Jessica, who was next – and last. Clint knew how much she wasn't saying, how much she didn't want to say, and he hoped that no one pressed either of them for details. He doubted they would; they'd all already talked about their summers.

"And now our newcomer," Mr. Coulson prompted. 

"Jessica," she said. "I'm a junior." They all sat there for a moment, then another, waiting for her to continue, but it quickly became obvious that she wasn't going to. 

Thankfully, Mr. Coulson let it go and moved on. "I'm hoping that this year we'll get more of a chance to expand our roles in the school community. I know that a lot of you had a lot going on last year, and we spent a lot of time establishing the group dynamic, but now that we all mostly know each other I'm hoping that we can branch out from this room and really start to make difference."

"I still think you have the wrong people," Loki said. "People might listen to Tony because he has money, but the rest of us?" He shook his head. "Everyone liked Steve and Thor, and maybe if they were still around people might care, but in case you haven't noticed, you've gathered a bunch of misfits, and—"

"Speak for yourself," Jessica said. "You don't get to speak for me."

Everyone turned to look at her, startled into the silence by the fact that she'd actually chosen to speak. "Did you have something you wanted to say, Jessica?" Mr. Coulson asked.

"I have plenty I want to say," she said, "but not to you. Not to any of you. This is— You don't know me, any of you. You don't get to label me a misfit just because I'm here, or just because I'm new, or whatever it is you think makes me one of you. I'm not. I'm not one of anyone, or anything."

"My apologies, Miss Drew," Mr. Coulson said. "I thought it might be beneficial for you to meet some of your fellow students, a number of whom have been through situations similar to—"

"I don't need you playing matchmaker for me," Jessica snapped. "You think you can just take two people and throw them together and they'll just be friends, just like that? Or a group?"

Clint ducked his head to hide a smile, because he didn't want Jessica to see and get pissed off at him. She had a point; this whole thing was pretty awkward for her, especially coming in to a group of people that already knew each other. But wasn't that the whole being new in school experience? He'd come in and everyone had known each other for years. He hadn't had a single friend until Natasha showed up, and what were the chances he would ever have spoken to her if Mr. Coulson hadn't forced them together?

Natasha glanced at him, the corner of her mouth quirking, but she quickly schooled her expression back to a careful blank. She realized it too, that sometimes Mr. Coulson was right, and sometimes his match-making worked.

"It's easier to get to know people in smaller groups, where there might be some common ground or interests, but of course there's also sports and clubs for that, so if you're not comfortable being here, I'm not going to make you stay," Mr. Coulson said. He stepped aside, clearing the path to the door.

Jessica looked at him, her eyes narrowing, then at the door, then back at him. She stood and took a step toward it, her eyes never leaving the social worker's face until she was forced to look away as she opened the door and stepped out. She shut it (none too gently) behind her.

"Wait, we don't have to stay if we don't want to?" Loki asked. "I don't recall we were ever given the opportunity to opt out of this."

"No one ever asked," Mr. Coulson said.

"So if I wanted to leave, I could?" Loki asked, his eyebrows creeping toward his hairline. 

"You could go back to class, yes," Mr. Coulson said. "I'm not trying to hold you captive."

"I could leave. Right now. And you wouldn't do anything." They were questions masquerading as statements, but the disbelief in Loki's tone was plain. 

"That's correct."

Loki considered that for a minute, and then grabbed his bag and left. 

"Anyone else?" Mr. Coulson asked. No one said anything, and no one moved. The room felt both larger and smaller with fewer people in it, like those who had left were somehow bigger in their absence than they had been. 

"They'll be back," Tony said. "Even if it's just to get out of class."

" _Can_ they come back?" Bruce asked.

"Yes," Mr. Coulson said. "They can come back. They'll be welcome."

They spent the rest of the time trying to come up with ideas of things they could do this year that would benefit the school community in some way, things that would position them as the leaders that Mr. Coulson wanted them to be, but each idea (and most of them were Tony's) was more far-fetched than the last, and Clint couldn't help thinking that maybe they were wasting their time, and maybe Loki was right. Thor had been a leader, and Steve in his quiet Boy Scout way. But the rest of them?

_Do you think they'll come back?_ , Clint asked Natasha when they were finally released. 

_I don't know,_ Natasha said. _It's not my problem._ By 'it' Clint was pretty sure she meant Jessica, and what was her deal anyway? None of them had been particularly happy about the group when it first started last year, but they hadn't been as... offended? was that the right word? about their inclusion in it as she had seemed to be. 

And what had she said? Something about not belonging to anyone, or anything? 

_What are we going to do tomorrow?_ , Natasha asked, changing the subject. 

_I don't know,_ Clint said. _What do you want to do?_

_Something that doesn't involve being at my house all day,_ she replied. 

_You could come to mine,_ Clint said, his face scrunching up with doubt about the prospect. _But the boys will be home, and Mrs. Sullivan..._

_I don't want to be in **any** house,_ Natasha told him. _I want to **go** somewhere. **Do** something. I want to..._ She shrugged, shook her head. 

_It'll be better when I have a car,_ he told her. _Then we can go where we want._

Natasha nodded, but he could see the tension in her, like electricity trapped just beneath her skin, ready to zap anyone who came too close. He didn't know what to do to make it go away, or if he even could. And they had to get to class anyway.

_We'll think of something. We'll meet up and we'll go somewhere. There are busses and whatever. We don't have to have a car to get places._ They didn't have to have permission, either, even if their foster parents thought otherwise. 

_Where will we meet?_

_We can figure that out tonight._ He touched her arm lightly. _We're okay,_ he signed in the small space between their bodies. He wasn't even sure why; he just felt like it needed to be said. Like she needed to know it.

_I know,_ she signed back. 

The warning bell rang, and she grabbed his hand, squeezed it hard, and let it go. _See you later._

_See you._

If anyone had asked him what had been discussed in his next class, he couldn't have told him. He all but turned off his hearing aids; instead spending the time trying to figure out why, when they'd been given the option of leaving the not-a-support group, they'd stayed.

The only conclusion he could come to was that of all of them, they were the four that needed it. Sure, Tony was popular, but why? Because of his name, not because of who he was. They didn't care about his money. The only thing they'd ever asked him for was help that hadn't cost him a cent to provide. Bruce kept himself to himself, but Clint got the feeling that it wasn't really by choice. He and Natasha had each other, but they'd learned that that wouldn't always be enough (and it probably wasn't healthy anyway). 

Would Loki and Jessica come back? He didn't know. Should they? He didn't know that either. And he didn't know if he wanted them to, except it wasn't much of a group with only for people, and who would ever follow any of them? 

He finally pushed the thought aside, because he had more important things to worry about, like where he and Natasha were going to go tomorrow. Because she was right, and he was sick of spending all of their time in one house or another. They'd both been here a year now, or nearly, and what had either of them seen?

They'd been given a second chance at life. It was about damn time they started living it.


	3. Chapter 3

They were just finishing lunch when Jessica came into the kitchen and announced, "I'm going to make a cake." She had her hands on her hips like she expected them to argue with her.

"What's the occasion?" Clint asked. 

Jessica shrugged. "Do you need an occasion for cake?"

"Depends," Clint said. "Is it chocolate cake?"

Her eyes narrowed. "I don't know yet. Why does that make a difference?"

"It doesn't," he admitted with a forced laugh. "I was just... joking, I guess." Clearly it hadn't been funny, and he didn't know why he'd bothered. Jessica wasn't exactly the joking type. He glanced at Natasha and she rolled her eyes at him.

"Do you need help?" Natasha asked, her tone more cautious than Clint was used to hearing. They didn't talk about life at Mr. Fury's since Jessica's arrival much, but from what Clint had gathered (and witnessed) things were still a little shaky, with most of the tension coming from Jessica's quarter.

"I'm fine," Jessica said blithely. "How hard can it be?"

_Famous last words,_ Natasha signed, but got up and put her plate in the dishwasher. "You know where I am if you can't find something," she said. Once they were in the hallway, she hesitated, glancing back.

_What?_ , Clint asked. 

_I'm not sure we should go upstairs,_ she said. 

_Why not?_

_Because I'm not sure she knows **how** to make a cake, and I'm kind of worried she'll light the kitchen on fire or something._

_We can watch TV,_ Clint suggested, _or a movie or something._ It was what they would probably do upstairs, too, so it didn't really make a difference whether they were in her room or the living room. They couldn't go out because they had no transportation, and anyway Jessica wasn't really supposed to be alone in the house and Mr. Fury had had to go out.

He wondered if the dark-haired girl knew that they were supposed to be keeping an eye on her. He wondered if Natasha knew _why_ , because he sure as hell didn't. 

Natasha switched on the TV. The screen was filled by frenzied looking people piping frosting onto little cakes and jabbering about how much it would mean to them to win. "Oh," she said. "That explains it."

"Explains what?" Clint asked. 

Natasha glanced toward the kitchen and switched back to signing. _She's obsessed with shows about food,_ she told him. _It's all she watches. I have no idea why._

Clint looked at the screen and grimaced. _She's not going to put hot dogs in the cake, is she?_

_We don't have any,_ Natasha said, but she craned her neck to look around Clint and see what was going on in the kitchen, like she wasn't sure she could put it past Jessica to try tossing something equally crazy into the batter.

Whatever she saw (or didn't see) must have reassured her because turned her attention back to the TV, flipping through a few channels before they decided to put in a movie instead. It was some action-type movie about a bunch of people with strange powers who were fighting over whether or not they should be cured of said strange powers, and also over some crazy red-head. 

About half an hour in, Jessica came into living room holding a bowl. "Is it supposed to look like this?" she asked.

"Uh..." Clint wasn't exactly an expert, but he was one hundred percent positive that cake batter was never supposed to look like whatever it was that Jessica had concocted.

"No," Natasha said. "What recipe you— _did_ you use?"

"Recipe?" 

"боже мой," Natasha muttered. Clint wondered if she was swearing. "I will show you."

"Should I pause the movie?" Clint asked.

"You can keep watching if you want," Natasha said. _This might be more entertaining, though._

Clint smirked and pressed pause. It wasn't that good a movie anyway. He got up and followed the girls into the kitchen, where Natasha retrieved a cookbook from a shelf and flipped through the index to find what she was looking for.

"What kind of cake you are making?" she asked. 

"I don't know," Jessica said. "Look, never mind, all right? I don't need your help. I can figure it out."

"Like you figure out first time?" Natasha snorted. "You don't even know what recipe is, how you think you are going to make cake?" 

Clint frowned, watching Jessica bristle. He really didn't want to have to break up a fight between the two, or even witness one, but that seemed to be the path that they were headed down. Two stubborn girls in one kitchen was a recipe (put _totally_ not intended... well, maybe a little intended) for disaster.

"Forget it," Jessica snapped, throwing the bowl into the sink. She stalked off.

Natasha sighed and went to wash the bowl. She didn't have to; she hadn't made the mess so it wasn't her responsibility to clean it up, but she did it anyway, and Clint began to wipe off the flour and sugar and... what _was_ that?... from the counter.

A few minutes later, Jessica came back with an expression like a storm cloud. "You don't have to try to prove you're better than me," she said, getting so close to Natasha it made Clint take half a step back. "I don't care."

Clint held his breath, waiting to see which way this would go, hoping that Natasha would decide to take the high road, or at least not to take a swing. 

"I am not trying to prove anything," Natasha said evenly. "You want to make cake. I want to eat cake. Problem is you do not know how to make cake. Yet. I do. I am offering that I will help you to learn to make cake. Why this is problem? Why this is me saying I am better to you?"

Jessica opened her mouth, then closed it, her eyebrows drawing down even farther, like she'd suddenly realized she'd gotten herself in over her head and wasn't quite sure how to find her way back to solid ground without backing down, or backing up. The tension was palpable, but Clint could see Jessica wavering.

But after a few seconds she did both. "Sorry," she said. "I just... sorry." The words cost her something. Clint could see it, and he was sure Natasha could too.

Natasha shrugged. Apology accepted, apparently, or at least she wasn't going to push the issue anymore. "You want we should help or no?"

It was a little like watching Natasha when he'd first met her, and the careful way she weighed everything before making a decision. She still did it now, but it didn't have quite the same 'everything hangs in the balance' feel to it anymore.

"Yeah, okay," Jessica said finally.

"Okay." Natasha flipped through the cookbook again, finding a recipe for red velvet cake. The red made it interesting, but not overly complicated, and Clint knew she preferred cream cheese frosting to buttercream. 

She read through the recipe and they got out the ingredients, and then she stood back and let Jessica do the work, measuring things and putting them in the bowl, making sure that it all went in in the right order. "The thing you have to remember is baking is like science. You put in wrong amount of something, or in wrong order, it all can go wrong." 

"That's why she doesn't let me help when she's baking," Clint volunteered. "I don't pay enough attention to what I'm doing."

"Is also why Clint maybe will get us kicked out of chemistry lab for blowing things up." Natasha smirked at him.

"I would be a hero if I did," Clint said. "Get everyone sent home for a day while they bring in a hazmat team or whatever." He grinned. 

"They don't measure things on the TV," Jessica said. 

"On cooking show, maybe not," Natasha said. "That is different. That is more like... art. You can maybe put a little too much blue, so you add some red and make purple and everything is fine. Baking, you put in too much flour, too much water, not enough egg... it all goes wrong. Maybe not all the time, but a lot times. Or is like... potions. In Harry Potter. You mix it together wrong, maybe you kill Neville's toad."

Clint and Jessica both looked at her like she'd lost it. "What?" she asked. "You do not read Harry Potter?"

"I saw some of the movies," Clint said. "I don't remember anything about killing a toad."

"We weren't allowed," Jessica said.

"Are we doing cake or cupcakes?" Clint asked when it became clear that she wasn't going to elaborate on the statement. 

"Does it make a difference?" Jessica asked. 

"It makes a difference which pan I get ready," Clint said. "That's all."

"Cupcakes," she decided, and Clint retrieved the pan and the sleeve of papers to put in the cups. For all of the teasing, he wasn't as clueless about baking as Natasha made him out to be. Or at least he was learning how to be not quite so clueless.

"Who taught you to cook?" Jessica asked, looking at Natasha out of the corner of her eye as she began spooning batter into the cups. 

"I teach myself," Natasha said. "I learn to cook or I do not eat. Hunger is very good motivation. Baking I learn because it makes me feel less stress. I think only about getting it all right, forget everything else." She began to put dishes in the sink. "Not here," she amended after a moment. "Here if I do not cook, I still eat. But before."

"In Russia?" Jessica asked.

"No." Natasha sat down in the chair next to Clint, and he shifted to bump his knee against hers, wanting to reassure her somehow. She looked at him, smiled crookedly to tell him she was okay. "After Russia. Before here."

"What was in between?" Jessica asked. She looked up when an answer wasn't immediately forthcoming. "What?"

"Hell was in between," Natasha said quietly. "But that is done now."

"Is that why you ended up here?" Jessica asked. 

"Yes," Natasha said. "That is why." Clint could see that she was tensing up, bracing herself against further questions, because as far as he could tell, Jessica didn't operate under any set of rules that either of them were familiar with. 

But Jessica stayed quiet, focusing on trying to get an even amount of batter into each cup without turning the kitchen into the scene of a massacre (any more than she already had). But the silence felt thick, heavy, and it was hard to sit still under the weight of it so Clint went over to the oven and reached for the door.

"Don't," Natasha said. "You'll let heat out." She got up and went to his side, nudging him away with an elbow. "Anyway, there is nothing to see yet."

_Sorry,_ he signed. _It's just..._

_I know._ She shrugged, as if to say, 'It is what it is,' or maybe, 'Welcome to my world.' He couldn't imagine what it was like living with this girl who ran hot and cold and seemed to shift from one to the other like a switch had been flipped.

"What's this?" Jessica asked, waving her hands when they looked at her. 

"Sign language," Clint explained. 

"Why?" she demanded. "So you can talk about me in front of my face without me knowing it?"

Clint could feel heat creeping up his neck. They were kind of guilty there, but he didn't really want to admit it. "Because I'm deaf," he said. "Because it's easier for me to understand."

Jessica tipped her head, her forehead furrowing, brows drawing together. "You hear fine," she said. "We were all just talking, weren't we?"

"Hearing aids," he said, turning his head so she could see them behind his ears. "And yeah, in a small group without too much background noise I'm okay usually, but..." he shrugged. "If I was across the room and you started talking to me, I probably wouldn't know it unless you actually got my attention first. I have to be able to see people's faces to understand what they're saying most of the time. With this I can see every word."

"But how would someone get your attention with that? Wave?"

He shrugged again. "That might work, but yeah, you have to be able to touch the other person if they're not paying attention to you."

"So it's not really any more useful," Jessica said. "You're just doing it because you don't want me to know what you're saying. Don't think I haven't noticed. You'll be talking, and then you'll just stop and your hands start going. It doesn't take a genius to figure out that you're doing it so that I don't know what you're saying." 

The problem was she wasn't wrong. Not entirely, anyway, but Clint wasn't sure how to explain that it was habit, and it really wasn't anything personal. Natasha didn't give him a chance.

"Why you weren't allowed to read Harry Potter?" Natasha asked, putting herself between Jessica and Clint, even though there was half a room in between them already. 

"What?"

"You hear me," Natasha said. "Why you are not allowed to read Harry Potter? That is what you say, I want to know why."

"It's none of your business," Jessica said. "Who the h— _hell_ do you think you are?"

"You ask us questions, you demand answers, why you think is different for you? You say I try to prove I am better than you, then you think you get to poke us, find the soft places to dig in, and we cannot do same to you? You think _you_ are better?" Natasha snorted. "No one is better than anyone here. We all come from somewhere, we all are here for some reason. You want to pretend is not so, fine. But you don't get to attack and think we will not defend. We are not your enemy. I am not enemy you want to make. You do not want to start land war with Russia in winter. You will not win."

Clint had no idea if what Natasha was saying was meant to be an olive branch or a threat, or both, or neither. A glance at Jessica's face told him that she wasn't sure either, but at least she seemed to have taken the hint that maybe now was not the time to push things.

She finished getting the batter into the pan in silence, putting it in the oven and setting the timer. She looked at Natasha, and Natasha looked at her, and if what was happening in Mr. Fury's kitchen was anything like the historical standoff between Russia and the United States, Clint understood perfectly why it was called the Cold War.

Neither one of them wanted to budge, and he couldn't force them to, but if this was going to be like, he wasn't sure he wanted to stick around. If this was what it was always like, he wasn't sure how Natasha lived with it. 

But it was Natasha who bent first, and this time it was definitely a peace offering. "When I come to this country, it is by people who think I am property, not person. I finally get away. This is why I'm here."

Jessica bit the inside of her cheek and nodded, and didn't ask although Clint was sure she wanted to. "They thought it was devil worship," she said. "That's why we weren't allowed to read Harry Potter." 

"Okay," Natasha said. "Cream cheese is in refrigerator. Get that please, so we can make frosting."


	4. Chapter 4

The first thought in Clint's head as he woke up was, _I could get used to this._ Natasha's spine pressed into his chest, her body curved to fit against his like it was meant to be there. Sure, his arm was a little bit tingly because she was using it as a pillow, but her fingers were laced through his (at least he was pretty sure they were – he had to lift his head to check) and he was willing to put up with a little discomfort to not disturb her. She looked so peaceful, and unless she'd managed not to wake him, she hadn't had any nightmares. He hadn't either, unless he'd forgotten, but usually he remembered, even if the memory was just a lingering feeling of unease.

She stirred, her eyes cracking open, and she pressed herself tighter into his embrace before stretching and rolling over to face him. He kissed her, and she smiled like something amused her. Yeah, he could _definitely_ get used to this.

_What time is it?_ , she asked.

_I don't know. Early._

_What time is Steve getting here?_

_I don't know. Early._ He grinned, and she poked him in the ribs, then turned to look at the clock. _Well?_

_Early,_ she told him, and they tussled, stifling their laughter against each other's shoulders, and it might have turned into something else entirely except there was Jessica next door and Mr. Fury down the hall and Steve arriving sometime between now and eight, if Clint remembered correctly.

So they got up and showered instead, and got dressed and went downstairs to get breakfast, even though they'd been told not to bother to eat because there would be plenty of food at the fair. Jessica ignored them, her eyes on the TV as someone made something a lot fancier than oatmeal. Clint raised an eyebrow and Natasha shrugged. 

_Is she... do you think she wants to go with us?_ , Clint asked. It wasn't really his place to invite anyone, and he was pretty sure Steve's car was already going to be over full, and anyway she'd rejected the group and avoided them completely at school, so they didn't owe her anything in the way of friendship... but it still kind of sucked to be left out of things.

Natasha shook her head. _Mr. Fury asked her and she looked at him like he was crazy. He would have taken her if she wanted to go._

_Okay._ Going with your guardian and going with a group of friends were two totally different things, but it wasn't as if they actually qualified as her friends anyway. He wasn't sure she had any.

A car – minivan, actually – pulled up in front of the house at 7:30, and they both froze until they saw Steve getting out of the passenger's side. He rang the doorbell, and promptly apologized for doing so when they opened the door. "Sorry," he said. "I hope I didn't wake anyone."

"Everyone is up," Natasha told him. 

"Okay," Steve said, seeming genuinely relieved. "You ready to go?"

Natasha looked at Clint, who nodded, and they stepped out into the bright, cool day, locking the door behind them. Tony and Bruce were already in the van, and a girl they didn't know was driving. "This is Peggy," Steve introduced her. "Peggy, this is Natasha and Clint."

"Morning," she said with a smile. "Nice to meet you."

"Nice to meet you too," Clint said, sliding into the back seat and fumbling with his seatbelt. 

"So... wait," Tony said as they pulled out of the driveway. "Wait a second. No one told me this was a triple date."

"What are you talking about?" Steve asked.

"Clint and Natasha, and you and Peggy, and—"

"Peggy and I aren't—"

"Right," Tony interrupted. "Okay. No problem." He paused, then turned to Bruce wearing his best attempt at an angelic expression. "Bruce, would you like to go to the fair with me?"

Bruce, who had apparently managed to tune Tony out (he looked like he was still half asleep), blinked. "Uh..."

"Excellent," Tony said. "It's a date!" He grinned. "There, now it's a triple date. Problem..." His voice trailed off as he got distracted by the view out the window... or the lack thereof. 

The day had been perfectly clear, but seemingly out of nowhere, they were surrounded by a dense fog. "Did we just enter the Twilight Zone?" Tony asked.

"I think we're more likely to be attacked by dinosaur monsters," Bruce said. "Like in _The Mist_."

"Well that could ruin our day," Steve quipped. "It's just fog."

"There wasn't any fog in the forecast," Peggy said. "Hopefully it won't last."

But it was eerie, going from sunshine and not a cloud in the sky to not being able to see much more than the car in front of or beside them, and it put a damper on conversation until they finally drove out of it. Once they had been reassured by the sun's reappearance that the day wasn't going to be a plague by rogue bizarre weather, talk turned to what they were going to do, which for the most part seemed to be what they were going to eat. 

Steve had been to the fair pretty much every year since he was a kid (it was a two week long annual event celebrating the six New England states, and apparently kind of a big deal) and Bruce had gone a few times before but not in quite a while. Tony, despite having lived in the area his entire life, had never been, and the other three weren't from around here at all. Only Clint had been here this time last year, and the Sullivans hadn't been inclined to take him much of anywhere at that point; he'd still been too much of a flight risk at that point.

"How good a potato can be?" Natasha asked after listening to Bruce and Steve rhapsodize for several minutes. "Is potato."

"Trust us," Steve said. "I promise you won't be disappointed."

Natasha looked at Clint, one eyebrow quirked up, and he shrugged. As far as he was concerned, fair food probably wasn't much different than circus food, and that meant it was all pretty universally mediocre, but hey, he was willing to give just about anything a shot. 

When they arrived, it was still early. The gates were open, but most of the buildings weren't yet. They did find a stand selling coffee and hot chocolate, and they shelled out the money for the chance to warm themselves from the insides out. Clint was glad that they'd worn hoodies; it was chillier than he'd thought. (Not that he was complaining – Natasha held her hot chocolate in one hand and tucked her other, along with his, into his pocket, and who cared who saw?)

So they wandered, getting the lay of the land (and it seemed to go on forever). They found themselves in a barn filled with sheep in little pens, some of them wearing coats and hoods of some kind, which were apparently to keep them clean so they would look good for being shown later. 

"People show sheep?" Tony asked. "Really?"

"It's an agricultural fair," Bruce said. "People show sheep, and cows, and horses... that's kind of the point."

"Oh." Tony frowned slightly. "That's..." His head snapped up. "Did that sheep just _moo_?"

They all stopped, pausing to listen. Clint didn't hear anything, but everyone else seemed to. "Maybe it's one of the cows on the other side," Bruce suggested.

"We're nowhere near the cows," Tony said. "There is a sheep that moos. A mooing sheep."

"Not so boring after all, huh?" Steve teased.

They stuck together until everything started to open up, and then they decided it was easier to split up so that everyone could do what most interested them.

Left to their own devices, Clint and Natasha weren't quite sure what to do. They finally decided to check out the state buildings, since that seemed to be the part of things that was different from your average traveling carnival. They quickly realized that the main attraction in each state seemed to be food-related: cider donuts, blueberry pie, chowder, lobster rolls, apples, maple syrup, maple cream, maple... 

_Soda?_ Clint's eyebrows went up. _Maple soda?_

_Try it if you want it,_ Natasha said, looking dubious. 

So Clint handed over a couple of dollars for a cup of maple soda... which was pretty much exactly what it said it was. He offered Natasha a sip, and watched her face as she processed the experience. _Good, huh?_

She nodded, and they moved on, deciding they would come back later to try some of the other things that might not have sat well at ten o'clock in the morning. They wandered, watched a dog herd ducks (the space was too small to herd sheep, although there were plenty of them available), checked out a stall that sold stuffed bears wearing dresses or overalls with names embroidered on them. There was a stuffed bunny in a lacy flowered dress that said Natasha, but nothing that said Clint. It wasn't really their style anyway.

The midway was disappointing, so they didn't waste money on ride tickets. Clint wasn't big on carnival rides as it was; he knew that for the most part they were safe, but he'd heard about one too many accidents from various members of the carnie circuit to be entirely comfortable putting himself – and more importantly Natasha – in danger for a couple of minutes of potential excitement.

And even though he knew that midway games were more-or-less rigged, he still tried to win her something. After one game, though, she touched his arm. _What am I going to do with a giant stuffed... I don't even know what those are supposed to be?_ , she asked him. 

_I don't know. That's not the point._

_What's the point, then?_

_I'm your boyfriend. This is what boyfriend's do at fairs. It's like... the law._

She snorted. _I'm not a lawyer, but I'm pretty sure that's not anywhere in any law book._

_It's the boyfriend code or something,_ he argued. He wasn't being serious... mostly. Well, maybe a little. He should at least be able to win her something, give her something to show for the day. Even if it was a cheap toy that had probably cost less than a dollar to begin with, and he'd just handed over twice that for a chance to win.

_When have we ever cared about anyone else's code?_ , Natasha asked. _When have we ever played by anyone else's rules?_ When Clint still didn't budge, she rolled her eyes. _I don't want any of that junk. It doesn't mean anything. You want to buy me something, fine. Come pay for one of these earth-shattering potatoes that Steve and Bruce were talking about._

She took his hand and tugged, and tugged again until he followed, and didn't let go until they were in line... which thankfully was moving quickly, because Clint sensed that Natasha's patience was starting to fray at the edges. But her temper eased when they finally sat down to eat. 

_Okay,_ she conceded. _It's a good potato._

When they were done, they moved on to the next state, their own home state, and stopped dead at the display of pictures in the front of the building, showing smiling faces of children and teens, advertising the foster/adoption program. Clint reached out and slid his arm around Natasha's shoulders, pulling her in against his side, and she let him, if only for a moment.

Inside, they discovered that there was a Lego station where you could build a little replica of the state building. Clint also discovered that Natasha had no idea what Legos were. Not that he was any kind of expert, but they'd had a few when he was growing up, until his father had stepped on them one too many times and, after beating the shit out of him and his brother, threw them away.

It took them a minute to figure out that they had started at step five of eight, and that they needed to go around to the other side of the table if they were going to do more than just guess at how things were supposed to go together. Shoulder to shoulder, they pressed the little blocks in place, frowning at the instructions and trying to figure out which bit was which, since some of them looked rather similar in the instructions. Finally, though, they had two little buildings, which they tucked into their pockets to take home.

_I have no idea what I'll do with it,_ Natasha said, _but it was fun making it._

Clint grinned and nodded. _Yeah. I just have to make sure the boys don't steal it and put the pieces in with their stuff._

_They'd better not,_ Natasha said. It didn't look like she was joking.

They moved on to the next building, stopping at different stalls so see what they were selling. Natasha teased Clint as he visited one food stall, then another. _What?_ , she asked. _Are you going to eat something from every state?_

_Why not?_ , Clint countered, offering her a bite.

But as the afternoon wore on, he could sense her getting more and more tense. He was used to crowds, but with the exception of himself (and sometimes their small group of friends) Natasha was something of a loner by nature, and constantly being surrounded by people, being jostled and jarred and touched unexpectedly, was getting under her skin. She'd had enough.

Clint took his phone out of his pocket and texted Steve, hoping that he'd put his phone on vibrate because there was no way he was going to hear anything over the ambient noise. (Not that Clint could hear anything at all – the jumble of sound had quickly become too much for him and except when he was dealing with vendors, he'd switched his hearing aids off.) 'We're ready to go whenever,' he told him as he found them a seat while Natasha waited in line for an éclair.

A message came back a minute later: 'I'll round up Tony and Bruce.'

They shared the pastry in silence. Natasha's attention was obviously elsewhere, and Clint let her be. She was trying hard to cover up her discomfort, but he could see it in the set of her jaw and the way her shoulders were creeping up towards her ears. He knew the feeling; he got it all the time at school. This was a situation he was much more familiar with, so it was easier for him. And he could turn off a lot of the clamor.

His phone buzzed. 'Meet us at the gate.'

_Ready to go?_ , he asked Natasha.

She nodded and stood up, ignoring him when he offered his hand. They managed to find the gate, and their friends, easily enough, and it was a relief when they were back in the confines of the car, even if Tony seemed determined to talk the entire way home.

Clint kept his hearing aids off so he didn't have to listen to it, and when Natasha slid over to the middle of the seat and leaned into him, he put his arm around her, nuzzling into her hair and breathing in the scent of her, now tinged with sunshine and fry grease. 

He wasn't all that surprised when she fell asleep with her head on his shoulder, but the fact that she _could_ , the fact that she trusted him enough to do that... well, he didn't think that would ever stop feeling amazing. He wasn't used to being anything to anyone and now, at least some of the time, he was everything to someone. (And sometimes she was everything to him, and he was sure that his therapist would have something to say about that but he didn't really talk about Natasha with her because he figured it was none of her business.)

Steve dropped them off first, and he had to nudge Natasha awake. She blinked at him like she hadn't realized she'd been asleep, and thanked Steve for inviting them and Peggy for driving and climbed out of the car. 

Jessica poked her head out of the living room when they came in, but said nothing. 

"You want to try some fudge?" Natasha offered. "Is pumpkin pie flavor. I do not know if this is good, but you say once you like this pie, so..." She shrugged.

Jessica managed to cover her surprise fairly quickly, but Clint had seen it, and he was sure Natasha had, too. She hadn't expected them to bring her back anything. "Yeah, okay," she said. 

So Natasha cut the chunk that she'd bought into smaller pieces, sharing it between the three of them. Clint wasn't sure about it, but Jessica seemed to enjoy it. "Do you think it's hard to make?" she asked. 

"I don't know," Natasha said. "Tomorrow maybe we can find out." She offered Jessica a taste of her maple sugar cotton candy as well, and then, peace offerings delivered, they retreated to her room. 

_It was a good day,_ Natasha said, after they'd kicked off their shoes and sprawled on her bed. 

_It was,_ Clint agreed. _Thank you._

_For what?_ Natasha asked, but he only shrugged in response, and he was glad that she didn't press for more of an answer than that because he wasn't sure that he had one. _Thank you,_ she said after a minute, and he didn't ask what she was thanking him before because he was sure that it was equally unanswerable, and why did it matter anyway?

He didn't mean to fall asleep, but it had been a long day, and her bed was soft and she was warm and it was just so easy to... Yeah. He could get used to this.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone not from the northeast United States, the fair that they went to is the Eastern States Exposition, aka [The Big E](http://www.thebige.com/fair/index.asp).
> 
> Also, for anyone curious, this is the song that I got the title of this story from: [Time for a Sign](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-jQeecyTSbU).


	5. Chapter 5

Clint shifted his weight from one hip to the other, trying to figure out if there was any way to make himself comfortable in the chair that rivaled school desk chairs for lack of padding. He was in his case worker's office, waiting for her to show up. She was running late. She was always running late. He wasn't really surprised; he was one of probably a hundred kids she had to deal with at any given time (well, that might be an exaggeration... or it might not be) and she always seemed to be in a rush.

He didn't know if being called in unexpectedly to see his case worker was better or worse than being called in to see his counselor... psychologist, whatever... but at least his counselor had decent seating. He shifted again.

He was about to get up, pace a little, poke around at all of the crap on the shelf next to the desk, when the door finally opened. He looked up and saw... not his case worker. He looked around hurriedly. Was he in the wrong office? But the nameplate on the desk said Miranda Bloom, and unless his memory was a lot worse than he thought, he was in the right place.

"Sorry to keep you waiting," the young man who had entered said. "Um, yeah, sorry." He dumped a pile of file folders on the desk and held his hand out to Clint, only to have to yank it back a second later to keep the folders from sliding off the desk. "Shi—oot," he said, and grimaced, looking at Clint out of the corner of his eye. "Sorry."

"I don't care if you swear," Clint said, trying very hard (okay, not really all that hard) not to laugh. He kept it to a quiet snicker. 

"I know. I mean—okay, I don't know, I shouldn't have said that. I mean—"

Obviously, the poor kid didn't have any idea what he meant. And that's what he was, too. A kid. He couldn't be all that much older than Clint. He guessed five years, maybe, or six. Just out of college, Clint figured, his first real job.

"Where's Mrs. Bloom?" he asked, not _entirely_ to rattle him – he genuinely wanted to know – but also to see if the kid would lose it again. It wasn't intended to be malicious, but it wasn't all that often that Clint felt like he got the upper hand when dealing with the people who had so much power over his life, and he just couldn't help pushing his advantage, just a little.

"Oh, she's here," the young man said. "She's just talking to one of the other workers. I can, uh, get her if you want."

Clint's eyebrows went up. "Well I _do_ have an appointment with her," he said. "At least I'm supposed to."

"Oh." The young man smiled at him, almost apologetic. "I'm sorry, I guess I didn't really explain very well. She's still your case worker, technically, but your case has been given to me. I'm working with her. So you're meeting with me, and she'll just sign off on the important things. She's, like, my supervisor."

This had to be some kind of cosmic joke. Clint choked back a laugh, but it wasn't really funny anymore. It was bad enough that anyone had any say over what he did or where he went in the first place, but now there was some overzealous klutz calling the shots in his life? 

"Uh... are the Sullivans okay with that?" Clint asked.

"It's... the foster parents don't really get a say in who their child's case worker is," the young man (who still hadn't introduced himself) said. 

"What about me?" Clint asked. "Do _I_ get a say?"

"Um. Not really?"

"Great."

"I mean if you really need to talk to Ms. Bloom, then of course I can get her, but obviously she thinks that I can handle it or she wouldn't have given me the case, right?" He smiled. "I'm Ju—Mr. Trout, by the way. Nice to meet you." He offered his hand again, this time without provoking a paperwork avalanche.

Trout? Really? From a flower to a fish. Not that Mrs. Bloom reminded him much of a flower, but he was still take it over having a spazzy fish for a case worker any day. And then he had to turn his face away so that Mr. Trout couldn't see him wage battle against the urge to burst out laughing, because now all he could picture was Dory from _Finding Nemo_ trying to give life advice. (Although actually she'd been pretty smart, in her own way. No one else knew how to speak whale, did they?)

"Um, are you okay?" Mr. Trout asked. "Do you need some water or something?"

Clint took a deep breath and forced himself to keep the smirking to a minimum. "I'm okay," he said. "Sorry."

"All right. Let's just get down to business then." Mr. Trout opened up a folder and spread it out in front of him, his eyes flickering over the pages. "So, uh... how's school going?" he asked. "Any problems?"

_If there were I wouldn't talk about them to you,_ Clint thought. "Not really," he said. "Everything's good." He was actually doing okay, although it was still early days. Having Natasha in some of his classes definitely helped, because a lot of times what he missed she remembered, and she could help him piece it together after. (And sometimes it worked the other way around, too, although not as often. Her English got better every day. His hearing didn't.)

"So you're a senior this year. Have you—"

"No I'm not," Clint said. "I'm a junior." Wasn't that in his file?

"Oh." Mr. Trout looked down at the file and nodded. "I guess this needs to be updated then," he said. "Sorry about that."

"It says I'm a senior?" Clint asked.

"No. It's got the wrong date of birth. It says you're going to be eighteen, not seventeen. Someone must have just typed it in wrong. Happens all the time." He screwed up his face. "I mean, not all the time. Our records are very good, actually, but everyone makes typos sometimes, y'know?" He started to make a note on the file.

"It's not wrong," Clint said. "Did you _read_ the file?"

"I looked it over," Mr. Trout said. "I just, I guess I missed that you were, uh, behind a year. It's not unusual," he said in his most reassuring tone. "So, right, okay, that's good then, since that was what I wanted to talk to you about anyway." He folded his hands and smiled at Clint.

Clint didn't smile back. "What was?"

"Turning eighteen," Mr. Trout replied. "Have you thought about what you're going to do?"

"Get my driver's license," Clint said, leaning back in his chair. It was all he thought about sometimes; once he had his driver's license and a car, the whole world would open up for him. He wouldn't have to rely on other people to get him where he needed to go, and he and Natasha could go wherever they wanted. 

"Right," Mr. Trout said. "That's great. But I meant more... hm. More... generally, I guess. More... in the grander scheme of things. Once you turn eighteen, you're eligible for emancipation," he said. "You can leave the foster care system."

Clint blinked. Somewhere along the line he'd stopped thinking about that, about getting free of the Sullivans and the whole foster care thing. It didn't mean he always liked it, and sometimes the restrictions placed on him by his foster parents and the system in general (he included school in that) really chafed, but he'd started to think of them as a necessary evil. He'd assumed that he was pretty much stuck until he graduated, just like any other kid.

"Yeah," Clint said. "I guess I hadn't really thought about that much. With, uh, with school and everything. And trying to find a car and trying to figure out if I have time for a job and all that. The Sullivans don't really want me to get a job because they don't want me to be distracted from school but once I get a car I'm going to need to be able to pay for gas and stuff so I'm going to need more than the allowance they give me, probably and—" He was babbling, and he cut himself off. 

"Well it's something worth thinking about. Kids who enter the system later in life usually want to get out of it earlier rather than later. They don't like other people calling the shots. I see here that you had some trouble when you first came into the system. Attempts to make contact with your biological family, to escape a group home that you were placed in."

"That was last year," Clint said. "It's... different now."

_And don't you dare ask me what changed because I'm not telling you._ There was no way he was giving this kid anything about Natasha. He wasn't even sure why the thought put him so far on edge, but it did.

"That's good," Mr. Trout said. "It's good that you've settled in. That's always the goal, of course, to have a kid – a youth – feel like they've found a place to call home. That's what we're supposed to be doing, so that's great that you've got that. Right? That's what you're saying."

_Close enough._ Clint nodded. 

"Excellent. That's really great." He made a note of something – were there check boxes on the file for when they'd managed certain achievements. 'Client expresses that they feel at home in foster placement. Achievement unlocked.'

"What... what happens if I decide to leave?" Clint asked. "Get, uh, emancipated?" He didn't even know why he was asking. It wasn't actually something he wanted to do... was it? Yeah, getting away from the Sullivans might _seem_ like a good idea, but was it really? It wasn't like he had anywhere else to go, and...

A thought struck him, and he blanched. If he could emancipate himself at eighteen, did that mean the Sullivans could decide they were done with him? Could they just decide to kick him out if he didn't do what they wanted? If they could, did they know that? He was the oldest kid they'd ever had. They'd never raised a teenager before; they'd told him as much. All of the kids they'd had before had been younger, and had left foster care before they reached high school. So maybe they didn't know.

Or maybe they did, and that's why they'd taken him in, because they knew they wouldn't be stuck with him for much more than a year, no matter how much of a pain he was. Maybe they just hadn't told him yet. But...

Would Mr. Sullivan have talked to him about taking him to get his license when he turned eighteen, if that was the plan? Except once he had his license, they could say, 'Look, he's independent, he doesn't need us anymore, can he go now?'

They wouldn't do that, though. They wouldn't. They weren't like that. They would never kick a kid out who had nowhere else to go. Not unless he fucked up really badly, and he hadn't... yet. But his idea of what was fucking up and theirs didn't always match up and...

Mr. Trout was looking at him strangely. He wondered what the social worker (he assumed social worker – case worker, anyway, and usually they were social workers) had said that he'd missed. "Uh, sorry," he mumbled, tapping his hearing aid like that was his excuse, rather than the fact that the thoughts chasing themselves in circles in his head were too loud for him to hear anything.

"I said that if you decide to get emancipated, there's some paperwork that you'll need to fill out, and the state will provide you with certain support systems while you get yourself on your feet. But once you leave the foster care system, you can't go back. You'll be considered an adult, and you'll be responsible for yourself. No one else is going to be taking care of you."

Was this kid even _trying_ to be reassuring? Clint never thought he'd say it, but what he really wanted right now was to ask for Mrs. Bloom to come back. She'd at least pretended to give a shit occasionally, despite the fact that she didn't really have time to care. But he didn't say that. 

"Right," Clint said. "Okay." He chewed his lip. "Um, thanks."

"Did you have any other questions for me?" Mr. Trout asked. 

_Yes, of course I've got questions,_ Clint thought. _I've got about a million fucking questions that I didn't have before and I ain't about to ask you a single goddamn one of them!_ All he wanted was to get away from this kid so he could think about the situation he now found himself in: potentially homeless in less than a month.

Which shouldn't freak him out nearly as much as it did. But he'd never actually been homeless, had he? Even with the circus, traveling from one place to another every week, he hadn't been homeless. Even when he'd quote-unquote run away from his family's trailer, it had only been to stay with someone else that was part of their group for a day or two until everyone cooled off and his got sober enough (or what passed for sober) to feel sorry for what he'd done.

"Nah," Clint said. "I'm good."

"Well great," Mr. Trout said, extending his hand... and letting it drop when Clint ignored it. "It was great talking to you. I'll check in soon, okay?"

"Yeah, okay," Clint said, getting up from the seat that had made his butt go numb. That was all right, though... the conversation had made the rest of him go numb, because numb was easier to deal with that terrified. It was a feeling that was entirely too familiar.

He left the office and went out to the waiting room, where Mrs. Sullivan was just barely managing to keep Connor from running wild and causing a scene. The other two were too absorbed by their video games to pay attention to anything else, and Mrs. Sullivan had to tell them three times that they were leaving before it sank in.

"How was the meeting?" she asked, once everyone was strapped into the car.

"Fine," he said. He knew it wasn't going to be enough of an answer for her. She hated that word, said it didn't mean anything, and she was right about that. It was the opposite of an answer, really. It was the answer that everyone hid behind because they couldn't politely say, 'I don't want to talk about it so kindly fuck off.'

"What did you talk about?"

"Just the future," Clint said. "Plans now that I'm, uh... well he thought I was a senior, I guess." He shrugged. "No big deal."

Because if she wasn't thinking about the fact that he was eighteen and she could be done with him if she wanted to, then he wasn't going to bring it up. If nothing else, it bought him a little bit of time to figure out what he was going to do.

All he knew right now was that the plan started with calling Natasha.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this post is so late! I'm in the process of moving (mostly but not quite done) and I didn't have the wireless password for the new place so I couldn't post until I got that, and since I worked all day it wasn't until just now and I'm really, _really_ sorry and I love you all! ♥


	6. Chapter 6

_They wouldn't do that,_ Natasha told him, the signs firm, definite, but he could see the uncertainty in her eyes, the way that her gaze shifted ever-so-slightly to the side, away from him, because she couldn't lie to him.

Not that she was lying now. Not intentionally, anyway. She didn't _want_ to be lying, but there was no way for her to be sure, was there?

_I know,_ Clint said, and he wasn't lying either, exactly. He wanted the words to be true.

He also wanted to be able to reach through his computer screen to touch Natasha, to push her hair back where it was getting in her face, to let himself be wrapped in her arms so he could pretend that everything was all right.

They'd gotten very good at pretending that in the time they'd known each other. Except sometimes they could lose themselves enough that it didn't feel like pretending.

_It will be okay,_ she told him, and she believed that a little more, he thought. _If something happens, we'll make it okay._ She looked away from the screen; she must have heard something in the background. She looked back at him, frowning. _I have to go._

He wanted to say, 'Don't. Please don't.' But he just nodded and told her, _Okay._

The screen went blank as she disconnected, and he closed his laptop on the absence of her. 

The logical thing to do, probably, would be to talk to the Sullivans about it. If they didn't know already that they could get rid of him, they would probably find out soon enough, and it would probably be better if he brought it up ahead of time, discussed with them the fact that he didn't really want to leave. 

Did he?

He didn't. He didn't always like it here; the boys drove him crazy and he hated having a curfew and enforced homework time and everything else, but they'd been pretty good about most things, and even if Mrs. Sullivan still had the ridiculous rule about him keeping his door open when Natasha was there with him (well, maybe not _quite_ so ridiculous anymore but it wasn't as if they weren't responsible about it) at least they let her come over at all. At least they'd let her stay when she'd most needed to, even though they hadn't known why then, and they let him stay with her at Mr. Fury's sometimes. They took him where he needed to go (within reason) and they made sure he had what he needed. 

It could be worse. It could be a lot worse. He'd heard from other kids during his brief stint in the group home just how much worse it could be, and he kept telling himself that now, as he had over and over again when he first arrived. 

So he should tell them that. Just sit down and tell them that his case worker had said that he could emancipate himself when he turned eighteen but he didn't want to and was it okay with them if he stayed?

Because that idiot kid of a case worker had said he _could_ , not that he had to, and... 

... and why hadn't he asked what would happen if he didn't? That would have been the smart thing to do. Mr. Trout had said that the state would give him certain kinds of support if he did, but what about the Sullivans? Did the state keep paying them for keeping him once he turned eighteen? If it didn't, what reason did they have for letting him stay? Not that they were in it for the money, but they weren't rich and without whatever money they got from the state they probably couldn't _afford_ to keep him and...

... and his thoughts chased around and around and around in his head and finally he just got up and left the house because he couldn't sit still any longer. He started walking, not really paying attention to where he was going, just letting his feet lead him as he tried very, very hard to not think about anything at all.

He finally looked up from dodging cracks in the sidewalk to see where he'd ended up, and the sound he made was somewhere between a laugh and a sob.

The cemetery. Of course. Where else?

He found the place where one of the bars was missing and squeezed through, making his way to the little building (it wasn't a mausoleum; he thought maybe it had been used for storing maintenance equipment or something once upon a time when the place was still being maintained) that had sheltered so many of the early moments he and Natasha had shared, some of the best and some of the worst.

They hadn't been here in a while, but the ring of stones where they'd built fires was still there, and the tarps they'd used to keep their butts dry when sitting on the ground. One was wrapped around the blankets they'd used to keep warm. It seemed impossible that no one had been here, no one had touched anything, but it was pretty out of the way and maybe homeless people didn't think cemeteries were the best places to sleep. 

_Maybe you'll find out,_ he thought, and the weight of it pushed him to his knees. He wrapped himself in one of the blankets, which smelled of mostly of wood smoke but a little bit like Natasha, too, unless he just imagined that because he wanted it to be there. 

He pulled his phone out of his pocket and sent her a text: MEET ME TONIGHT.

He didn't get a response until much later, when he was walking home in the twilight that seemed to descend into darkness faster and faster every night, because he needed to be home (home? When had started thinking of it as that? Did he really?) before dinner or the Sullivans would worry and right now he needed to toe the line. 

One word: OKAY.

So he found himself sitting in the cemetery again late that night, feeding twigs into the fire that he'd started but that didn't quite seem to want to catch, waiting for her. She hadn't asked where, which meant (he hoped) that she'd assumed he meant here, since this was where they'd always met before. He had no idea how she was going to get here; it was a long walk from Fury's, a very long walk, but what other option did she have?

Which made him a first class idiot, and kind of an asshole while he was at it, because it wasn't exactly warm and she would have to sneak out and never mind the fact that she had to walk here, she'd have to walk _back_ , too, and he really hadn't thought this out, had he?

He pulled his phone out of his pocket to send her a message telling her never mind, don't come, he was stupid for even asking, but his finger hovered over the Send for so long without actually tapping it that in the end he never did, because she appeared at his side, wrapping a blanket around both of them and slipping her hand into his. 

_You're freezing,_ she signed one-handed, tucking their interlocked fingers into the pocket of her hoodie (that had once been his hoodie) and squeezing. _Don't you have gloves?_

Clint shrugged. _I forgot them._

_I'll keep you warm,_ she told, and she had mischief in her eyes and he knew he should smile but it came out lopsided, half-hearted, and the twinkle faded into something more serious. _I'll keep you safe._

How many times had he told her that? Dozens, probably, only when he thought about it he wasn't sure he'd ever actually _said it,_ , not in so many words. It hadn't mattered, though. She'd known it.

Now she was saying it back to him, and he knew that he should be embarrassed by that, that he shouldn't take comfort in the fact that he knew she meant it, and that she would do it to the best of her ability, no matter what, but he did. 

His eyes stung and his throat and chest ached, but Clint didn't realize he was crying until Natasha brushed away a tear, and that was all it took. That first tear was followed by another, a ragged breath that shuddered through him, and then he was in Natasha's arms and he didn't understand what she was whispering into his ear over the sounds he was making reverberating in his head, and maybe it wasn't even in English and it didn't matter anyway. What mattered was that she was _there_ , and how the tables had turned. 

His father would have had something to say about that... something about how much of a man he wasn't... but his father was an asshole, and dead, so fuck him.

Fuck him, because it was his fault that Clint had ended up here in the first place, wasn't it? It was his fault everything had fallen apart, and his fault he'd gotten himself blown up (wasn't it? except maybe that was Clint's fault...) and his fault that when the shit hit the fan the rest of the circus, their alleged extended family even if not by blood, hadn't seen fit to try and keep him out of this.

Except if they had, where would he be now? What kind of life would he have? If they'd picked him up and dragged him away before the authorities got hold of him, he would still be deaf and probably wouldn't have hearing aids, he wouldn't know sign... and he would never have met Natasha. 

And if that was the trade, he wouldn't take it back. He wouldn't take any of it back.   
He don't know how long they stayed like that, how long she stroked his hair and kissed away the tears, how long she rocked him until the tears stopped flowing and his breathing returned mostly to normal. It felt like a very long time, but when he looked at the fire it didn't seem to have burned down too much, and the moon was still roughly where he'd left it, so maybe it wasn't that long after all.

_Do you want to stay here, or do you want me to take you home?_ , Natasha asked. 

It was only then that Clint thought to ask how she'd gotten there in the first place, but she only shrugged and told him, _I'm staying with you either way._

_Here then,_ Clint said. _If the Sullivans catch us..._ Except he could get in just as much trouble for staying out all night if they found out. Either way he was likely to end up in trouble.

_We won't get caught,_ Natasha told him. _We never do._

Never was maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but they'd gotten away with a lot before anyone had any idea what was going on, so maybe they could pull it off at least one more time, even if they were a little out of practice.

_Okay,_ he said, because they were both starting to shiver even with the fire and the shared body heat. _Take me home._

They put out the fire and put away the blanket, and walked hand in hand to the Sullivans. Clint was relieved to see that there were no police cars out front. As long as they could get up to his room (and get Natasha out in the morning) they would be okay. 

Clint still remembered which floorboards creaked, and they managed to get up the stairs without anyone else's door popping open. He shut his door behind him and leaned against it, letting out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding, panting almost until Natasha came over and took his hands again, drawing him to the bed and tugging him down into it.

_If you have to leave here, you'll just come stay with me,_ she told him.

_You'll have to ask Mr. Fury,_ Clint pointed out.

_He won't say no,_ Natasha replied. _He wouldn't let you end up with nowhere to go._ She seemed sure of it, so Clint let himself be sure too.

_Okay._ It was something, anyway. 

_Try to sleep,_ Natasha told him.

_You too,_ he replied.

_You first,_ she said, and that spark of mischief was back in her eyes and this time he managed a better smile before closing his eyes. In the end he didn't know who fell asleep first, but it was deep and dark and blessedly dreamless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter marks one year since I originally started this story in Ghosts. Wow. 
> 
> I feel like I ought to apologize that it isn't something more epic and exciting... if I wasn't in the middle of an incredibly stressful move into an even more stressful living situation, I might have managed something a bit better. So I'm sorry for that.
> 
> Anyway, thank you for sticking with me for this long! Here's too many more weeks together! ♥


	7. Chapter 7

Clint didn't even know what the fundraiser was for. The fact that Pepper had been the one who had nagged them into going didn't help; it seemed like she was involved in everything. He was pretty sure it had nothing to do with Homecoming, or student council... maybe it was even for the drama club. If it was for that, he didn't mind so much. Maybe he should have paid more attention.

He told himself it wouldn't be that bad. They were all going, after all. Tony because Pepper was going to be there, and Bruce because Tony was going. Steve because he was a nice guy, and Clint and Natasha because they'd said they would and they both owed Steve favors (Steve had been the one to bring her to the graveyard that night, he'd found out later; she hadn't walked all that way) and when he'd called to ask if they needed a ride there was no way to back out of it.

At least it was a nice weekend. The sun was out and a breeze was blowing, but it was warm enough to be out in a t-shirt and jeans and be comfortable. They had hoodies tied around their waists for later, because the temperature would drop as soon as the sun went down.

"Where are you going?" Jessica asked, coming out onto the porch, standing hip cocked with her arms somewhere between crossed and wrapped around herself. 

"To apple..." Natasha looked at Clint, frowning slightly. "What is word?"

"Um... orchard? Yeah, orchard."

"To apple orchard," Natasha said. She glanced at Clint, then back at Jessica. "You want to come?"  
Clint could see in Jessica's face, the slight wrinkle to her nose and furrow to her brow, that she was as surprised as he was that Natasha had asked. The two girls seemed to have reached some kind of détente, but he didn't think they were exactly friends. 

"Why?" Jessica asked. 

"To get apples," Natasha said. "And pumpkins, I think. We can make pie."

The mention of food obviously piqued Jessica's interest. Clint didn't know what the food situation had been like where she grew up, but he got the feeling that maybe it hadn't been so great, because she seemed kind of... fixated. Which was something he could understand. 

"You can just bring them back," Jessica said. "You don't need me to go."

"Need, no," Natasha said. "But is fundraiser and there is also... haunted house? Or not house. Haunted something. We will be gone until late."

"And it's a hell of a lot better than sitting around hanging out with Mr. Fury," Clint pointed out. "I mean, unless that's your idea of a fun and exciting Saturday afternoon."

Jessica's eyes narrowed, but he thought he saw a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. "I'll go get my shoes."

"And coat," Natasha called after her as she went back inside.

Once she had disappeared, Clint looked at her, eyebrows raised in silent question. She shrugged. He could have pushed the issue, but why make it a bigger deal than it was? Which, if he was being honest, he really didn't know how big of a deal it was or wasn't, but it didn't really matter. At least not right this second.

So the three of them waited for Steve to pull up, and they crammed into the back seat, along with Bruce, who pointed out (as he was jammed up against the door), "I'm not sure this is strictly _legal_." 

Steve glanced back at them and grimaced. "It might not be. Everyone buckle up as best you can. It's not too far." 

"You can always come sit in my lap," Tony suggested to Bruce, grinning back at him. 

Spots of color appeared on Bruce's cheeks, but he rolled his eyes. "I'm pretty sure that's not legal either."

"That's what we have lawyers for," Tony said, waving his hand dismissively. 

"Not all—" Bruce started, then shut his mouth and sighed. 

"I don't think we've met," Steve said, reaching around to offer Jessica his hand. "I'm Steve."

"Jessica," she said, but didn't take it. 

"Nice to meet you," he said, unfazed. "So you're one of Natasha's friends?"

He said it like Natasha had a lot of friends, and that it made perfect sense for her to just invite someone along without asking first. Which it didn't, and Steve knew it. They all knew it. Clint figured he was just trying to be polite and not call too much attention to the situation. Luckily, Tony didn't decide to open his mouth about the not-a-support-group debacle from the beginning of the year. (Jessica hadn't come back. Neither had Loki.)

"Yeah," Jessica said. "Sorry. It was kind of a last minute thing."

"No problem. I just wish I had the van again." He smiled at them through the rearview. "Everyone buckled?"

"More or less," Clint said. By which he meant the girls more and him less, but it wasn't like Steve was going to get in an accident. He was the safest driver Clint had ever met. 

Even so, it was a relief when they arrived and were able to get out of the car. He was sure they looked like clowns tumbling out of an undersized vehicle. 

They made their way across the field that was being used as a parking lot, and found the little stand that had been set up for the drama club. They paid for their bags to fill with apples and made their way out into the rows of trees. Tony craned his neck, searching for a flash of Pepper's strawberry blonde hair. When he finally spotted her, he took off, leaving the rest of them behind.

"So... we just fill the bags with apples?" Bruce asked. "Any apples?"

"Guess so," Steve said. "Look, there are signs, telling you what the apples are good for."

They mostly stuck together, although occasionally they went off their separate ways and met back up. Tony did eventually return, but he wasn't much help. He'd somehow acquired some kind of apple picking device on a stick, meant to reach the apples on the upper branches, but he was more of a menace than anything while wielding it, and refused to let anyone else (except Bruce, and then only reluctantly) try it.

Clint and Natasha didn't bother. They just climbed up into the trees and got them themselves, dropping them down to Jessica, who was good at spotting the biggest, brightest apples. (She was also good at eating them, but they were all guilty of that. Their faces were sticky with apple juice by the time their bag was half full.)

When they'd finally filled their bags, they lugged them back to the car, then headed for the pumpkin patch. Again, Tony was off like a shot, clearly on a quest for the biggest pumpkin he could find. The rest of them moved more slowly, going up and down the rows. 

"These don't look like the pumpkins we grew," Jessica said after a few minutes. "Are you sure you can eat these?"

"These aren't the kind you eat," Bruce said. "These are the kind you carve."

"Carve? Into what?" Natasha asked.

"Jack-o-lanterns," Bruce said, a note of 'duh' in his voice until he considered the source of the question and looked slightly abashed. "Don't you have Halloween in Russia?"

"Not really," Natasha said. "We know about it... mostly what we see in American movies. But we do not celebrate in same way. Or really at all."

"Oh." Bruce frowned. "So you're not going to dress up? I think Tony's having a party."

"Of course he is," Tony said, joining them again. "Any excuse to celebrate. Come see what I found!" He dragged Bruce off, either assuming that the rest of them would follow, or not caring if they did or not. But curiosity got the better of them, and they followed Tony to what had to be the biggest pumpkin in the entire field. 

"How are you going to carry that?" Clint asked. "Because I ain't helping!"

"We'll get a wagon," Tony said. 

"How you are going to get it back to your house?" Natasha asked. "That thing is bigger than person. It won't fit in car."

"I was thinking of calling Peggy anyway," Steve said. "Maybe she can come with the van."

"See? It'll all work out," Tony said, like he'd been sure all along. But then, he probably had been, because he generally got what he wanted one way or another, and if he needed to there was probably someone he could call to send over a car to chauffeur the pumpkin home. "And you're all coming to my party," he added. "Even you." He pointed at Jessica. "I don't care if you think you're too cool for us. No one and nothing is too cool for a Tony Stark Halloween Monster Mash Bash. But you have to wear a costume or Jarvis won't let you in."

"Who's Jarvis?" Jessica asked.

"He's my butler. Virtual butler. Keeper of the Keys and Grounds at Stark Tower, so to speak. Much better accent, though, and he's never made anyone eat slugs. Well, except that one time..."

Jessica looked over at Clint and Natasha for a Stark-to-English translation. Natasha rolled her eyes. "Harry Potter reference," she said quietly.

"I really need to read those d- _damn_ books," Jessica muttered.

"I have them," Natasha told her. 

"And the movies," Clint added.

Jessica gave a quick nod and flashed a smile, like she was grateful that they were going to keep her cluelessness quiet, and also that they were able (and willing) to clue her in. It was progress.

They all found pumpkins, because Tony insisted that they had to (and insisted on paying for them, which pretty much made it so that they couldn't really say no) and that they would all get together to carve them a few days before the party, no arguments, done deal, etcetera. He got an extra for Pepper, confident that he could somehow convince her to join them.

Peggy showed up (and Steve lit up, and they didn't even tease him about it) and they loaded the pumpkins into the van, arranging things so that at the end of the night Steve could drive half of them home in one direction, and Peggy could take the rest in the other. They got cider and donuts and spent a while goofing around as afternoon turned to dusk turned to twilight.

Pepper came and found them as they were eating a makeshift dinner. "Thank you all so much for coming," she said, careful to keep herself on the opposite side of the table from Tony. "The maze is going to open up in a few minutes, so you might want to head over there to get the hay ride out there."

"Thanks," they chorused, and even Tony couldn't manage to get anything else out before she had headed off to another group of students. Bruce kept hold of him so he didn't try to follow. 

"Maze?" Jessica asked.

"Corn maze," Peggy explained. "It's there all fall, they gave your school's drama club permission to do a haunted maze this weekend, so they've got people set up in there." She smiled. "It should be fun." 

Jessica didn't look at all convinced of that fact, and Natasha's expression was carefully blank, which Clint knew was a sign that she was equally unimpressed by the idea. It was a mask as sure as the rubber ones that the drama club kids would likely be sporting, but one that Clint knew could be far scarier, at least for him.

"Hay ride?" Steve frowned slightly and patted his pockets. He pulled out his inhaler and clasped it in his fist. "Well, this'll be interesting."

And it was, for definitions of interesting that involved being uncomfortably bumped along in a giant wagon hauled behind a diesel-belching tractor, being prickled and itched by hay and listening to Steve wheeze as his allergies took hold.

They got to the maze, where Peggy told them to go ahead while she sat with Steve, saying they would meet them after. He really didn't sound good. Tony dragged Bruce in, and Clint, Jessica, and Natasha followed more slowly, picking their path carefully even though they had no idea which was the right way to go. The walls (even though they were only dried up cornstalks) felt solid and like they were pressing in around them, and the sky had clouded over so it was just a big dark blank with no stars or moon to reassure them that they weren't completely trapped.

The first time someone jumped out at them, they all jumped back fast and far enough they nearly tripped over each other. The second time wasn't as bad... the kid in the costume wasn't nearly as subtle, and they saw him coming. There were scenes set up in corners, witches stirring cauldrons and scientists doing experiments that Clint was sure would give Bruce and Tony a laugh, but it wasn't funny, really. It wasn't exactly scary, either... except every time something unexpected happened, it got harder to recover from.

Clint didn't know if it was the fourth or fifth unexpected scare that finally made Natasha snap. When the kid (had to a freshman, by the size) jumped out, she didn't jump. She shoved. She pushed him over, a snarl on her face that was more terrifying than anything that they could have dreamed of, and if the kid didn't wet himself Clint would be shocked.

Jessica laughed, but not because it was funny. There was the faintest edge of hysteria in her voice, and it was pretty damn clear they'd all had enough. Problem was, there was no way out but through, and where the fuck was the end of this thing, anyway?

The kid must have fun to find someone else, to tell them that he had been attacked or who knew what, because a few turns farther down the (hopefully correct) path, they were stopped by someone blocking their way, a long scepter in his hand. "You're not supposed to scare _us_ ," he drawled. "We're supposed to scare you."

Loki. And for once his voice held neither annoyance nor mockery.

"You know how to get out of here?" Clint asked. "Now. How to get out of here now."

Loki looked at them, looked at Clint and Natasha and Jessica, and honestly Clint didn't know what he saw there, but he just nodded. "Follow me."

Apparently escape routes had been built into the maze so that the hopelessly lost could be rescued, and a few minutes later they were safely no longer children of the corn. "Thanks," Clint said.

Loki shrugged and ducked back into the maze without a word. 

"Who the hell thinks _that_ is _fun_?" Jessica demanded. "It's not fun, it's _demented_." 

Natasha just clenched her jaw and her hands and every other part of her that she could clench, and when Clint offered his hand she clenched that too, tight enough his bones ground against each other and he tried not to wince. They found Steve and Peggy, and Steve wasn't any better than he had been. If anything, he was worse.

"Can any of you drive?" Peggy asked. "Because I don't think he's in any shape..."

"I can," Clint said. "I can drive."

"Good. Take him home. I'll wait for the other two." When Steve looked like he was about to protest, she glared at him until he surrendered his keys. It was a good thing, too, because by the time they'd gotten back to the car (after a second hay ride, god damn it) taking him home was no longer an option. Instead, they ended the night at the emergency room.

"Well that was a disaster," Jessica grumbled, slumping in her chair.

"Tomorrow we will have pie," Natasha said. "And Harry Potter. Yes?"

Jessica looked at her and smiled reluctantly. "Yeah, okay."

Natasha looked at Clint. "Yes?"

"Oh, I'm invited too?" Her face started to twist and he held up his hands in surrender. "Kidding, kidding. Yes. _Da._ I'm in."

"Good." 

And they went to check on Steve one more time before Mr. Fury came to take them home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post! The whole moving thing continues to suck up time and kick my butt (we're moved, but there's still a lot of stuff to be done) and I literally _just_ wrote this post just now, so... yeah. Please excuse all typos, etc. I promise to get myself back in gear and attempt something remotely resembling a plot soon!


	8. Chapter 8

Walking into Mr. Fury's house was like walking into a war zone... or at least what Clint imagined walking into a war zone would feel like. Not an active war zone, not a place under attack, but a place where something explosive, something violent, might happen at any moment.

He glanced over at the stairs, thinking maybe he should just make a break for it, and saw Natasha sitting there, her knees drawn up. She looked at him and pressed her finger to her lips. Clint closed the door quietly behind him and went to join her, carefully that his bag didn't thump on the ground when he set it down. _What's happening?_

_Jessica and Fury,_ Natasha told him. 

_I don't hear anything,_ Clint replied, wondering if maybe it was too quiet for his hearing aids to pick up. 

_They stopped._ Natasha looked at him, one cheek sunken in like she was biting the inside of her cheek. _They're probably standing there staring at each other, waiting for the other to crack._

Clint wished he could see that. Fury wasn't the kind of guy to back down... but he was pretty sure that Jessica could hold her own in a battle of wills. But from where they sat they couldn't see what was happening in the kitchen. More to the point, though, the kitchen couldn't see them. _Does this happen a lot?_

Natasha considered this for a moment, then shook her head. _Not a lot. Not usually._

_What—_ , Clint started, but stopped when he heard Jessica snap, "It's Saturday!"

"It doesn't matter what day of the week it is," Mr. Fury said. 

"Why should I have to do school work on Saturday? Isn't the whole point of the weekend that we get _away_ from school?" Jessica demanded.

"You still have homework," Mr. Fury said, "and as far as I'm concerned, there's no point in you doing said homework by yourself and getting it wrong when you can work with someone and get it right."

"Thanks for the vote of confidence," Jessica growled. "You just assume that I'm going to get it wrong. That's great. Real supportive."

There was a pause, and then Mr. Fury said, "Jessica. You're failing math. I spoke to your teacher, and she—"

"Which is another thing," Jessica interrupted. "You think just because you're the principal, you can just go around asking my teachers about my business? What right—"

"It has nothing to do with being the principal," Mr. Fury said. His voice was getting tight, like he was close to snapping, and Clint couldn't help wondering how long this argument had been going on... or how many times they'd gone back and forth about the same thing. A glance at Natasha told him that it wasn't the first time, and that it was starting to grate on her. He nudged her gently with his knee, and she looked at him. She rolled her eyes, but there was a tension in the set of her jaw that put him on edge. 

_Are you—_ But he couldn't finish because Natasha took his hand, stilling his fingers as she squeezed it.

_She needs help and won't take it,_ Natasha told him, releasing his hand. _She doesn't want to admit she needs it._

_Sound like anyone else we know?_ he asked. 

She smiled crookedly. _Point taken._

_So what do we do?_

"Then what right do you have to pry into—" Jessica started.

Mr. Fury had had enough. "What right? I'm your legal guardian, Jessica. It's my responsibility to make sure that you are fed, clothed, sheltered, and yes, educated. That is one of the things that's required _by law_ for parents to—"

"You are _not_ my p—"

"No, I'm not," Mr. Fury said. "I'm not your parent. You ran away from your parents. You went to the authorities. _You_ made that choice, Jessica, and now—"

"I didn't have a _choice_ ," Jessica snarled. "But now I do, so maybe I should just—"

Clint twitched, feeling like there was something – gun, knife, something – pointed right between his shoulder blades, ready to take him out if he made the wrong move. It was a feeling that he hadn't actually had in a while. He couldn't remember exactly when the last time had been, but he knew when he'd had it most often: when he was stuck in the trailer with his parents when his father had had too much to drink, hiding under the table or under his bed, sometimes with Barney and sometimes without, hoping that his father would forget he was there when he decided to start swinging his fists or throwing things.

It wasn't a feeling he liked, and it wasn't one he wanted to have to sit here and relive. He grabbed his bag and went back down the stairs and into the hall, opening the door and closing it again, barging into the kitchen like he'd just arrived.

Jessica and Mr. Fury turned to look at him, their argument at least momentarily derailed. Clint smiled. "Hey guys," he said. "Where's Natasha?"

"Upstairs," they both responded, in matching tones that told him to get out, go away. 

"No I'm not," Natasha said, coming up behind him. "I'm right here."

He looked at her and she shrugged slightly. She didn't know what he was doing (neither did he...) but she had his back. Of course she had his back. 

"I brought my homework over," Clint said, hefting his bag. "Figured we could work on it together. Especially the chem lab." Which he wasn't just saying for Jessica's benefit, although he hoped maybe her seeing someone else looking for help would maybe get her to calm down about the possibility of having someone work with her on math or whatever; he really did need help with chemistry. He'd missed one class because he'd had to leave school early to go to the audiologist (verdict? still deaf) and he was now completely lost, although Natasha said it wasn't that hard and seemed confident he could get caught up.

"We can work down here," Natasha said. "There's more room to spread out."

"Someone is coming over to help Jessica later," Mr. Fury said, "so you two will need to—"

"Maybe we should make cookies before they get here," Natasha suggested. 

"Good idea," Clint said. "I always study better with snacks."

Mr. Fury looked at the clock. "You have an hour."

"Which is plenty of time," Natasha said. "Jessica?"

Jessica was looking at them with narrowed eyes, but didn't say anything until Mr. Fury had left the room. "You're taking his side?"

"There are no sides," Natasha said. "We all have to live here."

"And I hate fighting," Clint said. "I've had enough of that for a lifetime."

"We weren't fighting," Jessica said. "Why would you say that?"

_Oops._ He'd forgotten that he'd made his entrance like he hadn't heard anything that had led up to that point. "You can feel it," he said, and it wasn't a lie. 

Her forehead furrowed, but she didn't say anything more about it. "We're out of chocolate chips," Jessica told Natasha. "We used them all for ganache."

"Get cookbook," Natasha said. "There are other cookies than chocolate chip."

They found a recipe, and Clint was given the task of mixing the cinnamon sugar and rolling the balls of dough in it before putting them on the cookie sheets. By the time the cookies went into the oven, Jessica seemed to have calmed down somewhat. By the time the doorbell rang, they'd all eaten a few, deemed them excellent, and almost forgotten that they were going to be spending the next several hours doing homework.

As soon as the bell chimed, though, Jessica was back on edge. "I'm not getting it," she said. 

Natasha sighed and rolled her eyes, but went to do what Jessica refused to, with Clint trailing her. She opened the door and stopped with her body still blocking the way in. Clint looked past her and instantly (well, almost instantly) understood.

"Come in," Natasha said, belatedly stepping aside. "Jessica is in kitchen."

"Thanks," the girl said, smiling at them and walking past.

_Isn't that...?_ , Clint asked.

_The girl from Boston?_ , Natasha supplied. _I think so._

_Me too._

But she didn't go to their school, did she? They hadn't seen her around, but maybe they just hadn't noticed? But Steve hadn't known her, and if she went to their school Steve would have known her because Steve knew everyone. And what would the odds have been that they would have run into someone from their school in a city hours away, anyway, even if it had been on a major holiday?

"I'm Carol," she introduced herself, to Jessica but to all of them. 

"I'm Clint," he told her, since neither of the girls was saying anything. "This is Natasha, and this is Jessica. Do you mind if we stay down here and work on—"

"Are those snickerdoodles?" Carol asked. 

"Yes," Jessica said. 

"Can I have one? They're my favorite. Well, one of my favorites." Carol smiled. 

"Sure," Jessica said. "We made them to share."

"Really?" Her smile grew even brighter. "Thanks." She took one and bit into it, and her eyes practically rolled back into her head. "Wow, these are amazing. You made them?"

"I did the cinnamon sugar," Clint supplied when Jessica didn't respond. "They did the hard part."

"They're not that hard," Jessica said. 

"Well, I'm still impressed," Carol said. "Why don't you grab your books and we can get the boring stuff out of the way?"

Jessica managed not to scowl, which surprised Clint, and went upstairs to get her books. Natasha followed her up, and Clint couldn't help thinking that it was partly to make sure that she actually came back down. They set up at one end of the table with their chemistry while Carol and Jessica took the other end with math. 

At first it looked like Jessica was going to dig in her heels and refuse to work with Carol, but as Carol looked over her notes and made increasingly indignant noises, Clint could see her curiosity getting the better of her. "What?" she asked finally.

"Nothing," Carol said. "Well, not nothing. But nothing you did." She flipped another page and then shoved the notebook aside. "Honestly? If that's how your math teacher explained things, then it's no wonder you're struggling. We're just going to start over."

Maybe it was the fact that Carol clearly blamed the teacher, rather than the student, but within a few minutes Jessica had relaxed, and after an hour she was working through problems with Carol looking over her shoulder and grinning at her when she got it right. "See?" she said. "Your teacher just doesn't know how to teach."

Likewise, Natasha was able to get Clint back on track in chemistry, and eventually they all moved on to other subjects, laughing and arguing and occasionally calling each other names as they asked stupid questions. If Carol thought the obvious gaps in the other three's education were strange, she didn't say. 

They found out that she'd only just started at their school a few weeks ago. Her family had been forced to move because of her father's job (he worked in construction and he'd gotten an opportunity that couldn't be matched by anything he was being offered back in Boston) and although Carol had argued that he could go by himself and the rest of the family could stay in their house so she could finish her senior year with her friends, she'd lost the argument.

"Do you want to stay for dinner?" Jessica asked out of nowhere. "I'm cooking."

Clint shook his head hard, waving his hands and trying to warn Carol off. He didn't even try to hide it from Jessica. He got a dishtowel in the face for his efforts, and Carol agreed to stay.

"I didn't know you could make ravioli with pumpkin," Clint said with his mouth full. "It's pretty good."

"Only 'pretty good'?" Natasha asked. "I think you eat half of them."

"I'm a growing boy," Clint argued, although he wasn't sure that was actually true. He could hope, but he wasn't exactly holding his breath. His dad hadn't been a big guy, and Barney wasn't overly tall either. 

"We do the dishes," Carol said, tapping Clint's shoulder. "They cooked, we clean."

"I think I like you," Jessica said, smirking. 

"Me too," Natasha agreed, although it wasn't as if Clint had ever not done his share as far as chores went, often sharing hers even when it wasn't expected of him. It just wasn't in him to sit around and do nothing while other people worked; it felt like laziness and that had been beaten out of him pretty early.

So they did the dishes, and then Carol glanced at the clock and swore. "I should go," she said. "Hopefully I'll make it home in time."

"In time for what?" Jessica asked.

"The game."

"What game?"

"The Red Sox game," Carol said. "It's game six of the American League Championship Series. They're up three games to two. If they win tonight, it's over, and they go to the World Series. If they lose tonight, it'll be tied and they play tomorrow to decide the series."

"That's baseball, right?" Clint said.

Carol stared at him like he'd grown an extra head or maybe kicked a puppy. "Yes, that's baseball. You really have no idea?" He shook his head. She looked at Natasha and Jessica. "None of you?" Natasha shook her head, and Jessica shrugged. Carol's jaw dropped. "This... okay, now I have to stay."

"Why?" Jessica asked. 

"Because it's the _Red Sox_ and you _don't understand_ ," Carol said, with a gleam in her eyes that spoke of a fanaticism that, yeah, they really didn't understand.

And yet when in the fifth inning the Tigers took the lead 2-1, they all groaned. Never mind the fact that they were still working on the concept of innings and outs and why some pitches were strikes even if the batter didn't swing and who was that guy and why was he getting in the way? (Even Carol couldn't answer that one...) They didn't have the lifelong investment in it that Carol did, but her intensity was contagious, and they found themselves staring at the screen, as if they could will the batters and runners and everyone else to succeed or fail (depending on which team they were on).

And they were practically jumping out of their seats when the Red Sox got a grand slam in the bottom of the seventh inning, bringing the score to 5-2 in their team's favor. It didn't matter that they didn't fully understand what was going on, and that three of the four of them hadn't cared in the slightest about the Red Sox before that day. They were in this together now, and they were winning.

Carol explained to them that all they needed to do now was keep the Tigers from scoring and they would win. It didn't matter if all of their players struck out as long as the Tigers didn't get a run... or three runs, really. 

"What if they do?" Natasha asked. "What if is tie?"

"Then the game keeps going until someone wins," Carol said. "No ties in baseball."

"Hm." Natasha pressed herself closer into Clint's side, and he wrapped his arms around her, hugging her gently. It was nearly midnight and they were both tired, but there was no way they were going to bed until it was over... however long it took. 

But it didn't take long. One hit, one runner to second base, and it was over. Carol shouted and jumped out of her seat, then turned and grabbed Jessica into a hug that she didn't quite seem to know how to return. 

It took a little while for Carol to settle down enough to realize that she should probably go home. She wished them all good night, and they waved from the doorway before retreating to bed. 

_Why do you think she cares so much?_ , Natasha asked as they settled beside each other. _It's just a game._

_I don't know,_ Clint said. _I think sometimes it just feels good to be part of something bigger than yourself._


	9. Chapter 9

"I wish you'd gotten up sooner," Mrs. Sullivan said when Clint came downstairs. "I would have made you a special breakfast."

Clint's stomach clenched, killing any appetite he might have had. "Why?" he asked, even though he knew. 

"Because it's your birthday," Mrs. Sullivan said, frowning slightly. She glanced at the family calendar that was hanging on the fridge, but the only thing written down for him was his driver's test after school. "I could have sworn I had it written down." 

She had. He'd erased it, hoping they would forget why he'd picked that day in particular for the test. 

But now she was doubting that she'd gotten the date right, and whatever problems they'd had, it was only decent to put her out of her misery. "Yeah. But it ai—it's not a big deal."

"Of course it is," she said. "You don't turn eighteen every day, after all. Well, we can do something special for dinner. Do you want to invite Natasha over?"

_Shit._ No, he didn't want to invite Natasha over. Not for a family dinner, anyway. He didn't want to be the center of attention. He didn't want them to be thinking about how old he was or the future or any of it, because what if they decided that it was time for him to go?

But what if he upset her by saying no and _that_ was the straw that broke the proverbial camel's back? 

_Damned if you do and damned if you don't._ Story of his life.

"Yeah, uh... I guess. I'll ask her." Because they wouldn't kick him out with her there, right? Or if they did, then maybe he could go stay with her at Fury's for the night while he figured out what was hell happened next. 

"What do you want to have?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "Anything you want."

_I want to be left alone._ But no, that wasn't it. Alone was the problem. Fuck. It was too early for this. He hadn't even had any coffee. All he wanted was Natasha right now, and the safety of her presence, because at least he knew where he stood with her. 

He didn't know what to say. He didn't know the right answers. "Um... lasagna?" Because he liked it well enough and he knew that it was easy for her to make enough for everyone and all of the boys ate it too so there wouldn't be any meltdowns or peanut butter and jelly emergencies. 

"All right." She smiled at him like she meant it and what the fuck did _that_ mean? He poured coffee into a thermos and headed for the door, but she called his name so he turned around and saw her holding something out to him. "This is _not_ part of a balanced breakfast," she said, handing him two Pop-Tarts, warm from the toaster. "But I'll let it go this time."

He took them, staring at her and looking away when he realized that he was staring. "Thanks," he said. "See you later."

"Your dad—Mr. Sullivan will pick you up after school to take you for your test," she said. "Good luck."

"Thanks," he mumbled again, and this time managed to get out the door.

He felt like he was in a fog, although the day was cold and... well, not bright. Not yet. It was too damn early and the sun was barely creeping over the horizon. But it looked like it would be bright later. Like the entire universe was either trying to make a point or setting him up for some kind of horrible cosmic joke.

Natasha was waiting for him on the steps. Now that she lived with Fury, she was usually here before him. "Happy birthday," she said, her breath ghosting from her lips as she pushed herself up to kiss him gently. She pressed a coffee and a bag into his hands, and he gave her the Pop-Tart he'd saved, cold now, and tucked away his thermos for later. 

"Thanks," he said, and let her lead him inside to sit on a bench in the empty lobby to eat the donut that she'd brought him. "You didn't have to."

"I know," she said. "I want to."

_I wish people would just forget,_ he signed, because his mouth was full.

_You didn't forget mine,_ she pointed out. _How could I forget yours?_

Clint shrugged. He hadn't meant her, not exactly, but he really hoped that no one was going to make a big deal about it. All he wanted was to get through the day... not that the threat of everything going wrong ended just because he survived his birthday. He would still be eighteen tomorrow, and the day after, and every day after that. 

_You haven't talked to them?_ , Natasha asked. 

_You know I haven't,_ Clint said. 

She nodded, and if she had anything else to say about it, she kept it to herself. Maybe she thought he should, but she didn't say it. It was his life, and his decision, and he was pretty sure she could understand why he didn't want to, even if she thought it might possibly be a good idea. 

_I looked it up,_ she signed after a minute. _They'll keep getting money for you until you're twenty-one if you stay._

_That doesn't mean they'll want me to stay,_ Clint told her. But at least it was one less reason for them to want to get rid of him. 

She lifted her hands like she was going to respond, then let them drop and instead just laced her fingers through his and tucked herself against his side. They sat like that until other students started to arrive, and for a little while after, until the bell forced them to go their separate ways.

Clint had a pass waiting for him in homeroom, telling him to report to Mr. Coulson's office during fifth period. He was relieved when he saw Natasha on the way to first period and saw that she had one, too. He'd been worried that it was just for him, that Mr. Coulson was going to want to talk to him about his future... or worse. But it was just a group meeting, and that was all right... probably.

Still, the morning dragged and he hoped that he wouldn't be tested on anything that was said in any of his classes, because he couldn't remember a word that had been said by the time he got to his next class. In Chemistry they did group work, and Natasha slid her desk over so she was close enough to press her knee against his, and that wasn't how they were, usually, not where anyone might see (not that it mattered so much anymore, but it was habit by now) but somehow she knew that he needed it and she was there.

She was always there.

And it was a good damn thing or he wouldn't have gotten anything done in that class, either. 

Finally fifth period rolled around, and he headed for Mr. Coulson's office. He pushed open the door, stuck in his own head and not really paying attention, and nearly tripped backwards when he was greeted with a shout of, "SURPRISE!"

The little room was decorated with streamers, and there was a table in the corner with pizza and soda and a slightly lopsided cake coated in frosting that looked like... well, it looked like it has been chewed up and spit back out. Tony came up beside him and blew a party horn at him, which had a paper tube that uncurled and smacked Clint in the nose. "Happy birthday!" he said, too loud for the small space, and if Clint didn't know better he would have thought the kid had managed to get drunk, but no, Tony was just having one of this high on life moments, because he was close enough that if he'd been drinking Clint would have been able to smell it on his breath.

"Thanks," Clint said, forcing himself to take a step forward instead of bolting. He looked past Tony to where Natasha was sitting on the arm of the couch. She grimaced and made the sign for 'sorry'.

"I was going to throw you a real party but it's so close to Halloween that even Absentee Dad of the Year would have drawn the line at two parties in the span of a week, and I thought about combining them but I didn't know how you'd feel about that and, well, this was the best we could do on short notice since _someone_ who shall remain nameless but who _might_ be celebrating his birthday today failed to _mention_ said birthday and someone _else_ who shall _also_ remain nameless but who whose name starts with N and ends with –atasha _also_ didn't at any point think to say, 'Oh by the way, He Who Will Not Be Named – not to be confused to He Who Must Not Be Named, although people who fail to tell their friends about natal anniversaries _might_ actually turn out to be _equally_ unpopular – has a birthday coming up and we should do something but lucky for _you_ I just _happened_ to be checking on something in the school database and _happened_ to stumble upon this piece of information and Mr. Coulson you did _not_ just hear any of that, by the way, so anyway, short notice and all but I think we did all right."

Clint looked around to see if _anyone_ had managed to follow the torrent of words that had just tumbled from Tony's mouth, but most of them seemed to be eyeing him almost warily, waiting for his reaction. So he forced a smile. "Thanks," he said. "It's great."

Tony beamed. "So can we eat now?"

"Jessica make the cake," Natasha told him as they sat down. "Is German chocolate. She says she hopes you like coconut."

"Are we sure it's coconut?" Clint asked. "She didn't make any substitutions?" Natasha had told him about some of her more disastrous improvisations. Apparently things that were the same color and/or texture were interchangeable in the Jessica Drew School of Culinary Creation. 

"No," Natasha said with a crooked smile. "I watch. All ingredients are same as written in recipe."

Either Jessica was improving or Natasha was getting better at intervening without pissing the other girl off, because the cake was delicious. "She didn't want to come?"

"She has study hall this period," Natasha explained. "She work with Carol right now."

"Too bad," he said. "I'll have to thank her later. Maybe we should save her and Carol each a piece." He got up to put some more cake on a plate to give to them before anyone else got a chance to eat it. 

"Oh good," Tony said. "You're done eating. Because there's one more thing." His eyes were gleaming with a maniacal excitement that he usually reserved for showing off his latest creations. "But we have to go outside. We can go outside, right?"

"I don't see why not," Mr. Coulson said. 

"Excellent. Because we were going to go out anyway." Tony yanked open the door and marched out, obviously expecting everyone to follow... which, of course, they did, although Natasha was dragging her feet and looking grim.

_What is it?_ , Clint asked, falling into step beside her at the back of their very short line. 

_Just... try to understand he's coming from a good place,_ Natasha replied, and Clint's was suddenly regretting having eaten so much as his system pumped more acid than could possibly be healthy into his system.

Tony led them out to the parking lot, past rows and rows of cars until they were in one of the back corners. He stopped in front of a shiny black car and plopped a bright red bow on the hood. "Happy birthday," he said, grinning (a bit smugly) at Clint. "From all of us."

Clint looked at the car, then at Tony, Bruce, Mr. Coulson, and finally at Natasha, looking for an explanation.

"I tell him and I tell him, you cannot do this," she said. "But why he would listen to me? I only know you best. I tell him, 'It is too much. Too big. Maybe is small thing to you but to us...' " She shook her head. 

He touched her arm, trying to reassure her that he wasn't upset. Not with her, not with anyone. He was just... confused. He looked back at Tony. "You're... giving me... a car?"

"Well duh," Tony said. "It's not new or anything, but it's not old, either, and it runs well. I had a mechanic check it over, and then _I_ checked it over, made a few tweaks here and there—"

"What do you mean, tweaks?" Clint asked. 

"Nothing crazy," Tony said. "I upgraded the stereo system, replaced a few parts with ones to make it more fuel efficient, things like that. It runs like a dream, and before you say anything, I was driving it on private property and didn't run into anything, so we can skip the lecture about how I don't actually have a license yet."

"Neither do I," Clint said. 

"I thought you were taking your test today," Bruce said. "That's what Natasha said."

"I am," Clint said. "After school. I just..." He didn't know what to say. Part of him wanted to say exactly what Natasha expected, which was that it was too much, that he couldn't take it, that they (which really amounted to Tony, he was pretty sure, and he was just saying it was from all of them because that was how he was sometimes) shouldn't have done this, that he wished they hadn't. 

But the truth was, he'd been looking and any car he could afford was a piece of junk, and yeah, Tony would have helped him fix it, but that would land him in the same Now I Owe You situation. And he needed a car. Well, wanted a car, but he might _need_ it sooner rather than later. It might end up being the only place he had to call home if things blew up at the Sullivans.

He had to say no. He couldn't say no. Catch 22 or whatever. Damned if he did and damned if he didn't for the second time that day.

"It's all registered and everything," Tony said. "Paperwork is in the glove compartment." He held out the keys to Clint expectantly.

Clint looked at Natasha, who shrugged. It was his decision, and no matter what he did it felt wrong. He wasn't going to try and lie to himself and say he didn't want the car. But nothing was this easy, and nothing in life was free, and if he accepted it, what would the universe do to make him pay for it?

He held out his hand and took the keys. "This is more than... I don't know how to..." He shook his head. "Thank you."

"What are friends for?" Tony asked. "But if I call you in the middle of the night needing a ride, you'd better drop whatever, or who—" He stopped himself as Natasha shifted half a step closer. "Kidding. Just kidding."

"Any time you need a ride," Clint said, "I'm there. That goes for any of you." The Sullivans probably wouldn't like it... they probably wouldn't like any of it, but he decided that dealing with drama with them was better than rejecting the gift and creating a rift in what remained of the group of people he'd come to think of as being sort of like a family, even more than the Sullivans ever would be.

"I think we'd better head back inside," Mr. Coulson said. Whatever he thought of all of this, he was keeping to himself. Clint was sure he had an opinion about the whole situation, but he was equally sure that even if he asked, the social worker wouldn't give it. 

"You really don't mind?" Natasha asked him when the period was over and they'd dropped off the cake with Jessica and Carol. 

"I can't say no," Clint said. "He wouldn't understand. And I need a car." He suppressed a sigh, forced a smile. "At least now I'll be able to see you whenever we want."

"As long as you pass test," Natasha teased.

Clint stuck his tongue out at her, and she did the same in return. The bell rang and they were forced to separate. He didn't remember until Mr. Sullivan came to pick him up that he was supposed to invite her to dinner. They had to scramble to find Mr. Fury to get his permission, and she ended up coming along to his test with him. She couldn't go in the car when he actually took the test, but it was nice knowing she was waiting for him, like a good luck charm or something.

He passed (which he'd known he would) and they headed back to the Sullivans for dinner and more cake. They offered to do the dishes afterward, but Mrs. Sullivan told him no, no one expected him to do dishes on his birthday. 

"I'm sorry we didn't really get you anything," she said. "We didn't know what you wanted, other than a car, and that's more than we can afford right now." 

He still hadn't told them about it. The keys were in his pocket but the car was still in the school lot, and he knew that he should say something but what if they got upset about it? 

But again, as usual, Natasha had his back. "We get him car," she said. "Well, he save up money all summer, and then we – his friends – we all chip in to make up difference and we get him car. We are not sure we will be able to do it until few days ago, but then it all work out and we surprise him today." It wasn't a complete lie.

Mrs. Sullivan blinked. "That's... very generous of you."

"We are used to wanting things, not being able to have them. I come from nothing. Clint, Bruce... we all come from a place of wanting and having no way to get what we want. This time... we find a way to get it for him." Natasha shrugged. 

"We'll have to talk about insurance tomorrow," Mrs. Sullivan said. "You won't be able to drive it until we get it on our policy."

"Yes ma'am," Clint said. And that was too easy, too. Everything all day had been too easy and the other shoe was going to drop soon, he was sure of it, but maybe he should take advantage of this rare good luck while it lasted. "Um... is it too late to ask for something for my birthday?"

Mrs. Sullivan's eyebrows went up. "What?"

"Can Natasha stay?"

She frowned, and Clint was sure he'd pushed it too far. "It's a school night," she said. "I don't think—"

"Please. Tomorrow's Friday, and we won't stay up too late."

Her frown deepened, but finally she said, "If it's all right with Mr. Fury, Natasha can stay. He'll have to bring her clothes for the morning." She didn't know that they both had clothes at each other's houses, just in case. She didn't need to know, either. 

"Thank you," Clint said. 

"Happy birthday," she replied. "Go on. I need to finish up these dishes."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post! I didn't forget! Or, I didn't _completely_ forget. I forgot this morning until I was halfway to work, and then I forgot when I got home until I was in the middle of making pizza... but here it is, finally. Hopefully it was worth the wait.


	10. Chapter 10

Clint let himself into Mr. Fury's house – the door wasn't locked because they were expecting him, he assumed – and went up the stairs. He wasn't surprised that the first thing he heard was Natasha and Jess bickering. They'd fallen into the roles of pseudo-sisters more and more over the last few weeks, and sometimes listening to them made him miss Barney... and sometimes it made him glad that he was now more or less an only child. (More when he was here. Less when he was at the Sullivans.)

"In Russia we do not celebrate Halloween like it is celebrate here, and even _I_ know is cliché," Natasha said. 

"One man's cliché is another man's classic," Jessica said defensively. "Anyway, you said you're going as a witch, too!"

"No, I did not say that," Natasha said. "I said I am going to be _night_ witch. Is different."

"Different how? Is this some Harry Potter thing? Day witches and night witches?"

"I thought it was good witches and bad witches," Clint interjected, catching them both off guard. Natasha frowned slightly like she didn't like being taken by surprise, even by him who she knew was safe, and Jessica scowled. "Good witches are north and south, bad witches are east and west... but I don't think we're in Kansas anymore."

"Is not a Harry Potter thing," Natasha said. "Is not Wizard of Oz, either, _умник_." Clint had no idea what the Russian word meant, but he was sure it wasn't a compliment. He grinned anyway. "Night witches - _nachthexen_ \- is what Germans call Soviet women pilots in World War II. They have some of worst planes possible, because of course men get best things, but still they have success. Is thing of course they do not teach in history class."

"Hmph," Jessica said, or some other not-word to indicate that she was maybe just a little impressed but unwilling to show it. "Well anyway, I'm going as a witch and I don't care if it's a cliché. So there."

Natasha shrugged and let her go, because if they kept arguing they were going to be late. She dragged Clint into her room and thrust a pile of material into his hands. "There," she said. "Dress and I will do makeup."

Clint's eyebrows shot up. "Makeup?"

"Yes. Green around eyes. You know this." 

"Right." He wasn't sure how he felt about wearing makeup – couldn't they just give him a mask or something? – but Natasha had been nice enough to basically make his whole costume for him, so he couldn't really argue. (Okay, more like she'd pretty much insisted on making his costume for him, because she didn't trust him to actually pull anything together himself that wasn't as cliché as a witch. She was probably right not to.)

He changed into the costume, pulling on the green hood last and tugging it down to partially obscure his eyes. He didn't even watch the show with the archer much, but they'd decided it was as good a costume as any for him, since they weren't going to do something as cringe-slash-barf-worthy as a "couple" costume.

Natasha beckoned him over, smearing dark green around his eyes, then held up a mirror so he could take a look. "See? Is not so bad." 

"Until I forget and smear it everywhere and turn into some kind of hooded mutant lizard man or something," Clint grumbled.

She kissed him softly. "So don't forget."

He slid his arms around her, and for a moment she let him, but only a moment before she squirmed away to finish putting on her own costume. It just looked like an old military uniform, the size of it dwarfing her small frame, but he was sure it was accurate, because she wouldn't have settled for anything less. The goggles on her head were the only thing that gave any real indication that she was supposed to be a pilot of some kind, but hey, if she liked it (and didn't mind explaining it all night) then who was he to judge?

Once they were all dressed, they piled into Clint's car and headed over to Tony's. There was already a pretty sizable group there when they arrived, and Tony was in his element, talking to everyone as if they were all the best of friends, but when he saw them come in, he came over right away. "Hey guys!" he said. "Make yourselves at home! There are movies in the theater and food's over there, Bruce is tending bar I think... someone is, anyway... and... yeah. Just have fun, and don't do anything I wouldn't do." He grinned and winked.

"Is Carol here?" Jess asked, then sighed at Tony's blank stare. "Never mind."

"What are you supposed to be, anyway?" Clint asked.

Tony's jaw dropped, then he shoved the helmet he had tucked under his arm over his head. "Don't you recognize me?" he asked, his voice tinny from inside. 

"Uh, no," Clint said. "Raised by carnies, remember?"

"And wolves," Natasha added. 

"And—" Jessica started, then stopped herself, and either Tony didn't hear her or for once in his life actually chose to ignore something that he could have used to pry his way into someone else's business that was none of his. 

"You wound me," Tony said, clutching his chest. "I'm the Rocketeer!"

"Oh, right," Clint said, as if that explained everything. "Well, uh, good job with that."

"The rocket pack doesn't work... yet," Tony said. "But it's a work in progress." He started to walk away, then turned back. "Also? I'm declaring a movie night sometime soon, because you need to see it."

"See what?" Jessica asked.

Although the helmet hid his face, Clint was sure that Tony rolled his eyes. " _The Rocketeer_!" 

"Right." But she wasn't paying attention anymore, and Clint couldn't help being a little amused that after all the fuss she'd made about it the first time Carol had come over to tutor her, she was now obviously looking for her in the crowd. 

Tony was off again, disappearing into another group of kids, and they gravitated toward the food, which was all Halloween themed (of course) and they grabbed small plates and filled them. For a little while Jessica stuck close to them, but eventually she found other people that she knew and split off.

They went to the bar, which Bruce was, in fact, behind, and leaned against it. Bruce sidled over, standing at a strange angle so that they could only see one side of his face. "What can I get you?" he asked. 

"Black Russian," Natasha said.

Clint considered asking for a beer or something, or maybe a Jack and coke, but decided to just stick with coke. Sure, they would be here for at least a few hours, but he'd just gotten his license and getting caught driving while even the least bit tipsy would be a disaster. He had enough to worry about without taking that kind of chance.

As soon as he asked for a coke, though, Bruce turned around, showing the other side of his face and snarling, "What, you can't handle the real stuff?" The change in his tone and demeanor, the whole way he held his body, was enough to make Clint shift back half a step. Then Bruce turned and faced them head on and grinned. "Cool, huh?"

Natasha blinked, then reached out and touched his chin, turning his face first one way, then the other. "Who did this?" she asked. 

"I did it myself," Bruce said. "Why?"

"Is amazing," she said. "Is..." She cocked her head, looked him up and down, considering. "Jekyll and Hyde both?"

"YES!" For a second Bruce looked like he was going to leap across the bar and hug her, but it passed quickly. "You're the first person to get it!"

She smiled. "Is okay," she said. "No one will get mine either."

But a few minutes later she was proven wrong when Jess came over with Carol in tow. Carol had on a Red Sox uniform, complete with fielding glove and a fake beard, and even if the Sullivans hadn't given him permission to stay up and watch the game, he would have known pretty much everything that had happened in the last game of the World Series because Carol had been reliving every moment of it all day. She stopped dead when she saw Natasha, her eyes going wide, and then she grabbed her by the shoulders. "It's amazing!" she said. "That's the greatest costume I've ever seen!"

"You know what I am?" Natasha asked, carefully extricating herself from Carol's grasp.

"Of course I know what you are!" Carol said. "A night witch! Gliding in and having to start their plans mid-air so get out of there after they'd dropped their bombs!"

Natasha smiled then, and let Carol hug her, and talked to her for a little while about night witches and flying – they hadn't known that Carol wanted to be a pilot, that her dream was to fly – until they both got distracted by Steve's arrival.

"Um... Steve?" Clint said. "You're supposed to put your underwear on _before_ your pants." He smirked, and Steve smiled good-naturedly although he'd probably already heard the same comment several times. 

"Even _you_ should recognize Superman," he teased back. 

"Have you been working out?" Bruce asked. "You look... bigger."

"The muscles are probably built into the suit," Tony said.

Steve flushed slightly, and Bruce shot Tony a dirty look. "A little," he said. "My doctor recommended trying to build up my strength and stamina. It will help with my asthma. At least that's the theory."

"You can tell," Bruce said. "I could never pull that off."

"It's all about confidence," Steve said. "You can do anything you put your mind to." And then he grimaced, because even if he was the sort of person who was almost unrelentingly optimistic, even he knew when he was spouting platitudes that couldn't help falling flat. "Anyway, you look great."

"Thanks," Bruce said. 

And then Loki came strolling by in some kind of Renaissance fair getup, holding a skull in one hand, which he appeared to being having a conversation with.

"Alas, poor Yorick," he said as he approached. "I knew him, Horatio."

"Who's Horatio?" Jessica asked, not knowing better, because her interactions with the drama club diva had been limited to a few minutes, almost two months ago now.

But she'd stumbled right into Loki's trap, so to speak, and given him the opening he needed to continue on with whatever he'd been spouting. "A fellow of infinite jest, of most excellent fancy: he hath  
borne me on his back a thousand times; and now, how abhorred in my imagination it is! my gorge rims—"

"That doesn't answer—" Jessica started, but Clint stopped her.

"Just ignore him," he said. "He's speaking gibberish."

Loki stopped and glared at him. "It's not _gibberish_ ," he sneered. "It's _iambic pentameter_."

"Bless you," Clint replied.

"Uncultured swine," Loki growled. 

"Not swine," Natasha corrected. "Wolves."

"Carnies," Clint added.

Jessica said nothing, but Clint saw Carol put a hand on her back, and he wondered what she knew – what Jessica had told her and what she had guessed. More than he did? More than Natasha? Not that it mattered, but he wondered anyway.

Loki stalked off, and Jessica rolled her eyes. "I still have no idea what he was talking about," she said.

"It's Shakespeare," Steve said. "I'm sure you'll get to it in English soon."

Clint hoped for her sake (and his and Natasha's and Fury's and Carol's and anyone else who had to deal with her) that she was more successful with it than he and Natasha had been. They'd had to write sonnets, and Natasha had managed to wrangle English into the proper format, only to have it torn apart by their teacher. Clint hadn't even managed to get that far, and had gotten a D because he just plain couldn't _hear_ the rhythms of the words. 

"Who wants to talk about school?" Tony interjected. "Everyone g—" And then his jaw dropped, and for once he had nothing to say, because Pepper had just walked in in a white dress like Marilyn Monroe in that famous movie where her skirt got blown up and the sight of her had struck him dumb.

It didn't take him long to recover, though (it never did) and then he was off to greet her and play host... and probably follow her around for the rest of the night, because for all that he didn't seem to care what anyone thought about him, the fact that obviously didn't think much of him just made him try harder.

The night passed too quickly, in a blur of music and movies with no subtitles and conversations that started and ended in the middle and too much candy and for some of them too much of things a lot stronger than that.

"That's the same Carol we met in Boston, isn't it?" Steve asked them, watching her stumble slightly and grab Jessica's shoulder to steady herself. 

"Yeah," Clint said. "Hard to tell with the beard, but yeah, it's the same girl. She just moved here. Her dad is doing some big construction job or something."

"She's..." Steve frowned. "Did she drive herself here?"

"No idea," Clint said. "But I can drive her home."

"Do we know where she lives?" Steve asked.

"Jess might," Natasha said. "Or we can ask her."

"We won't let her drive home like that," Clint reassured him. "I already have 'Tasha and Jess in the car with me. What's one more?"

"A lot, if she's like that," Steve said. "I'll take her." 

"Sooner rather than later, I think," Natasha said, as she caught Jessica's slightly helpless look as she bore more of Carol's weight as the other girl gestured wildly with her free hand, nearly clocking someone with the glove she wore. "Good think she does not bring bat," she added quietly.

"I'll go convince her she's ready to go," Steve said. "It's almost midnight anyway, and you all have school tomorrow."

"Good luck," Clint said. He got the feeling that although Carol was a perfectly happy drunk now, if anyone tried to make her do something she didn't want to, it might turn ugly.

In the end, they didn't know if it was Steve who convinced her or Jess, but they got her into his car and buckled in, and she was still smiling. She blew Jessica a kiss as Steve drove away, and Jess waved and sighed. "Time to go?" she asked.

"If you want it to be," Natasha said, and Clint wasn't about to argue.

Jess hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Yeah, I'm ready to go."

"Let's go say good night, then," Clint said, "and we'll get out of here."

Bruce seemed disappointed when they said they were leaving, but he was stuck for the duration because he'd promised Tony he would stick around, and he didn't really want to go home anyway. Tony smiled and waved at them, but his attention was firmly fixed on Pepper, whose attention was just as firmly focused elsewhere, but that didn't deter him.

The drive home was quiet, with Jessica in back staring out the window and Natasha beside him with her eyes closed like she was already half asleep. He dropped them off, waiting for Jessica to get out before leaning over to kiss Natasha. 

_I wish you could stay,_ she said, but they'd already been told on no uncertain terms that he couldn't. Not on a school night, he was lucky he was allowed to go to the party, etcetera. 

_I wish I could too._ He tucked back her hair and she smoothed away a stray streak of green, because of course he'd managed to smear it even with her pulling away his hands every time he reached for his face. 

_Happy Halloween,_ she told him. _Good night._ She got out of the car and followed Jess inside, stopping at the door to wave. 

_Good night,_ he signed back, not sure if she could see it. It didn't matter, really, because they both knew that it was.


	11. Chapter 11

With his birthday and Halloween passed, Clint thought that maybe things would settle back down again. He should have known better. (And really, who was he kidding? There wasn't really any 'again' about it. They'd never been settled in the first place, so if they had managed to, it would be a first. It was just a matter of what the source of the drama was.)

This time the source of drama was, well, drama.

"Is there any point in still doing this?" Bruce asked, saying what they were all thinking as the four of them – and it was still just the four of them – sat in the little room in the social worker's suite, waiting for Mr. Coulson to start their weekly meeting that never amounted to much of anything because they didn't have any idea what direction they were supposed to go in, and without a crisis to rally around they all got wrapped up in their own concerns.

Clint shrugged, and so did Natasha. He looked at it as a break from the regular grind of school, but not much more than that. He would never say it out loud, but he missed Steve, and Thor, and even Loki. Sure, the kid was annoying, but at least he lent some life to the gatherings, even if it was just as someone for them all to side against when he got into one of his contrary, devil's advocate moods... which was more or less always, when he thought about it. 

The door opened, and they all straightened up slightly like they'd been caught doing they weren't supposed to be and wanted to make a good show of acting like they hadn't been. A kid's habit (or maybe it was instinct), the physical equivalent of, 'Didn't do it, wasn't me, don't know what you're talking about.'

But it wasn't Mr. Coulson who came into the room. Or it wasn't Mr. Coulson alone. And if Tony had straightened up a little thinking the social worker was coming in, now he looked like a poker had been stuck up his spine, and he was practically vibrating with intensity. "Hi Pepper," he said. "Have you decided to join us? Because I think we—"

"I'm not here to join you," she said. "I just asked Mr. Coulson if I could take a couple of minutes of your time because I wanted to talk to all of you."

"The answer is yes," Tony said, before she could give any further indication of why she'd asked Mr. Coulson for the favor, or if there was even a question involved. Bruce must have elbowed him, because he let out a soft grunt and looked at him scathingly. "What's the question?"

Clint could see the beginnings of a smile making Pepper's mouth twitch. "Yeah, what's the question?" he asked. "So we know if we need to smack Tony upside the head for volunteering us."

Now she let the smile realize itself, and Tony's glare shifted from Bruce to Clint. "It's the musical," she said. "I'm the student director again this year, and—"

"Of course you are," Tony said. "You did such an amazing job last year, how could they even consider having anyone else do it this year?"

"No one else wanted the job," Pepper replied. "No one else is crazy enough to take it, and I'm quickly remembering why." She looked down at the clipboard she held (Clint was pretty sure she was the only high school student every to routinely carry a clipboard) and pursed her lips. "We have plenty of people signed up to audition for the show. We don't have anyone for the crew. Or hardly anyone. The sign-ups went up at the same time as the ones for auditions, but there's only a handful of names on them... and none of them are yours."

She shifted her weight and lifted her chin, looking at each one of them as she drew herself up like she was preparing to make a speech. Clint looked at Natasha, who looked back at him, then down at his hands, one eyebrow raised. 

_Yes?_ , he signed, low and tight to his body where it was unlikely anyone but Natasha would notice.

_Yes._

"We're in," he said, just as Pepper opened her mouth to speak.

"W—What? Really?"

"You can do your whole recruitment speech if you want to," Bruce said. "But I guess for once Tony was right, even if he jumped the gun. We'll do it."

"What do you mean, 'for once'?" Tony demanded. "I'm right—"

"Thank you," Pepper said. "I know you helped out last year but I was afraid that it was just because Steve asked and—"

"What do you need us to do?" Natasha asked. "Clint and I, we work with Steve last year on painting sets, but also I help with costumes some."

"We desperately need someone on costumes this year," Pepper said. "If you could—"

"I can."

"I can do sets again," Clint said. "Construction, too, if you need it. I'm pretty good with tools."

"Thank you," Pepper said again.

"I'm doing lights," Tony said. "Bruce is doing sound. Just like last year. Right, big guy?"

"Right," Bruce agreed, but his forehead was furrowed, his eyebrows drawn together, and Clint could practically see the words scrolling across his mind: 'Big guy?' But of course he didn't say it. Not while Pepper was there, at least. He was too polite for that.

"Thank you," Pepper repeated for the third time as she scribbled something on her clipboard. "You have no idea how much this helps out. I was starting to think that I was going to have to try and do everything myself, and there's only so much a person can do before she starts to spread herself too thin."

_And you hit that three projects ago,_ Natasha signed, but Pepper didn't see it and she wouldn't have understood anyway. Which was, of course, the point. 

"We're glad to help," Bruce said. 

"Just tell us when and where to show up and we'll be there," Tony added. "With bells on, even."

"Skip the bells," Pepper said wryly. "I'll let you know." She was halfway out of the room before any of them – and it was unsurprisingly Natasha who remembered – thought to ask what the show was. "Into the Woods," Pepper said. "If we can pull it off, it'll be amazing."

The way she said it made it sound like what she really wanted to say was, 'If we can pull it off, it'll be a miracle.' But she put on her best 'everything is great' face and made her exit.

They heard her thank Mr. Coulson as she walked out, and the rest of the meeting was basically derailed by the fact that they were busy brainstorming for the show, which they didn't really know anything about except that possibly it had something to do with fairy tales.

 

The first meeting was the next day after school; auditions were the following week. Somehow they had gone from volunteering to help out to being the heads of various crews (some of which had no additional crew members at this point) and Clint had somehow been promoted to stage manager. 

_I don't even know what a stage manager **does** ,_ Clint complained.

_It sounds pretty self-explanatory,_ Natasha teased, and he nudged her, knocking his shoulder against hers hard enough to jostle her sideways half a step. She might have retaliated, except they were distracted by the arrival of a familiar but unexpected face. 

"Sorry I'm late," Steve said, taking a seat next to Clint. "I had to talk to one of my professors about an assignment and then there was traffic and... well, I'm just sorry."

"That's all right," Mr. Fielder said. "We were just going over crew assignments. You haven't missed much."

By the end of the meeting, which lasted almost an hour longer than it was scheduled to (and Clint was really glad he had his own car now, because Mrs. Sullivan would have been _pissed_ if she was left waiting for him for all that time), all of their heads were spinning, and Clint was pretty sure he wasn't the only one regretting being so quick to agree to this. 

"How I am supposed to find others to help with this?" Natasha grumbled. "Does anyone even know how to sew anymore? Is this thing that is taught in America? I think no. I think clothing rips, you do not fix. You just get rid of, get new."

"I know how to sew," Clint said. "It ain't pretty, but I can put on a button if I need to."

She smiled crookedly at him. "You have enough to do, Mr. Manager of Stages." 

"I might have to kill Pepper for that," Clint said. "I'm pretty sure I said I could help with set construction and painting, not—"

"Oh good, you're going to help me paint again?" Steve said, coming over to them and smiling. "I was hoping that I would have some experienced help... and that maybe you could figure out how to recruit back some of the kids that I had last year, since I won't really be around to do it."

"Yeah, how are you even...?" Clint asked, not sure how to even finish the question.

"Well, normally it would be a student heading the crew, with a faculty advisor, but the art teacher that was going to be in charge of the set painting group had to go on maternity leave early, so even though I'm not a student or a teacher, they got special permission to have me come back and help out." 

"That's great," Clint said. "It'll be almost like old times."

"The only thing missing is Loki trying to upstage Thor all the time," Steve said, grinning.

"This I will not miss," Natasha said dryly.

"Hopefully he can make it through the run of the show without calling anyone a minion and making them go on strike," Steve said.

"I guess we'll have to wait and see when the cast list goes up," Clint said. "If he gets the part he wants, maybe he'll actually, y'know... not be an asshole?"

Natasha snorted, and Steve looked at her like he wanted to say something to contradict the sentiment behind the sound, but couldn't come up with anything. "Anyway, I've gotta go, but I'll see you guys later, okay?"

"Yeah, see you," Clint said.

Tony came charging up just as the lobby door closed behind Steve. "Damn," he said. "I guess I'll just have to call him."

"About what?" Clint asked. 

"I was thinking, since none of us really know anything about the show, maybe we should get together and watch it. I know that there's a movie of it. Not like a movie movie, but a filmed version of the stage play, and maybe that will give us some ideas. More than just reading the script would. Are you two free on Saturday?"

"We are free," Natasha said. "We meet at your house?"

"Of course," Tony said. "Who else has their own private movie theater?"

"Who else even has a living room big enough to hold all of us?" Clint asked. "What time?"

"I was thinking maybe around five? It depends on when people are free, but we can order food and everything. That way people have the day to do what they need to do, and then we'll have the whole evening to watch and do... whatever." 

"Sounds good," Clint said. "We'll be there."

When he dropped Natasha off, they were greeted by a scowling Jessica standing in the doorway, a knife in her hand. "Where have you been?" she demanded. "You were supposed to be home over an hour ago. I made dinner."

Natasha's eyebrows shot up. "Sorry, Mother. I did not know I am on your schedule."

For a second Clint thought that Jessica might actually hit her. They'd never actually come to blows, although it had been a near thing a few times early on, and he wouldn't have wanted to put odds on that fight. Jess was taller, bigger all around, but Clint got the feeling that Natasha knew how to do a lot of damage rather efficiently if forced to. Neither of them had had it easy, but he suspected that the fights that Jessica was used to were primarily psychological. Natasha he could see having had to brawl for ownership of one thing or another in her time.

Then Jessica turned her head like she'd heard something that Clint couldn't, and her hackles went back down. "Are you staying?" she asked, looking past Natasha to Clint. 

"Are you going to put the knife down?" 

She looked at it like she hadn't realized it was there. "Oh." She shrugged, actually looking slightly sheepish (but only slightly) and went inside. 

Clint took advantage of her distraction. _Do you want me to stay?_ , he asked Natasha. _Do you want to leave with me?_

_She can't hurt me,_ Natasha replied. _Stay. If I have to suffer through this, so do you._

_I **did** offer to take you with me,_ he pointed out. 

_Too late. It will be World War III if we walk away now._

What she didn't say, but Clint understood was the unspoken end of the thought, was that a person got tired of fighting.

They went inside. Jessica had, in fact, made dinner. The fact that Carol was there gave them a little more hope that whatever it was would actually be edible. Not that they had any idea of Carol's own cooking prowess, or whether she had had a hand in the construction of the meal at all, but they knew that whether she would admit it or not, Jess tried harder when Carol was around, like she wanted to impress her.

They hadn't figured out yet if Carol was flirting with Jess, or just friendly. They weren't sure Carol had either. Jess, they were pretty sure, was completely oblivious.

They sat down to dinner. Mr. Fury wasn't there; some kind of school board meeting or parent teacher meeting or who knows what, so it was just the four of them. Jessica had made enough to feed an army, and apparently she'd actually had the right ingredients to make whatever recipe she'd found... or if the whole thing had just been an experiment, some kind of culinary alchemy had occurred because it was actually pretty good. When seconds were offered, Clint didn't have to come up with a polite way to turn them down.

"Sorry 'bout earlier," Jessica mumbled. (Apologies, they'd learned, weren't her strong suit.) "Just had a long day."

"What happened?" Carol asked. 

"Mr. Fury and my guidance counselor and everyone won't stop bugging me about getting more involved. No matter what I say, they think I need to participate. I told them I don't care about fitting in, but they say that it's not about that. It's about... hold on, how did they put it? Oh right. It's about 'actively engaging in the school community, to build skills for dealing with the outside world.' Like I was raised completely outside of reality or something." 

"Well w—" Clint grunted as he was cut off by a swift kick in the ankle that had to have come from Natasha. He coughed to try and cover it up. "What do they want you to do?" he asked. "What kind of activity?"

"Join a club or something," she said. "I told them I'm not interested. I know how to deal with people just fine."

Clint caught Natasha rolling her eyes, even though her gaze was fixed firmly on her plate. "There has to be something you're interested in," he said. 

"Whose side are you on?" Jessica asked. "I would think you of all people – both of you – would understand."

"We do," Natasha said. "We understand you, and we understand them too. You think you are fine, you need no one else, only yourself, maybe one other person, or two. But... sometimes it takes more than that. Sometimes you need friends." 

Like they'd needed Tony, and Steve, and Bruce and Thor, when everything was falling part for her... for both of them, really. They'd thought they could manage it all alone, but they couldn't have done it without the others. Natasha might not be here if they hadn't reached out, if their friends hadn't stepped up. 

"She has friends," Carol said. "What do you think I am, chopped liver?"

"I know," Natasha said. "Still." She looked at Jessica, cocked her head. "Do you know how to sew?"

"No," Jessica said. "Why would I?" 

Natasha's gaze hardened, her jaw tensed. "You lie," she said. "Why?"

Jessica glared right back and said nothing.

Natasha shrugged. "I am doing costumes for musical. If you can sew, I can use help. Then you are 'participating in school community' and they are off your case."

Jess looked at her, but she wasn't ready to back down yet. "I'll think about it."

"What about you?" Clint asked Carol. "Can you sew?"

"I can reattach a button if I have to," Carol said. "That's about it."

"What about building? Or painting?"

Carol lifted her chin. "I'm insulted," she said. "My father works in construction. Do you think I've never lifted a hammer?"

"Good," Clint said. "You're hired, on a completely pay-free basis. I need set crew."

She considered it, then shrugged and smiled. "Sure."

Natasha scowled at him, and he grinned back. _I did it for you,_ he signed, when the other two weren't looking at them anymore. _If Carol helps, so will Jess... probably._

_We'll see,_ Natasha said. _She might decide to be contrary._

_I don't know **anyone** like that,_ Clint teased, and was lucky that Natasha's plate was empty or he might have been on the receiving end of a forkful of peas. He smiled at her smugly, then asked, "What's for dessert?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late post! I had every intention of waking up early to make sure I got it posted before work... but then I forgot to set my alarm, woke up an hour late, and barely made it to work on time! (And yet was still the first one there...) Anyway, hope you enjoy!


	12. Chapter 12

Natasha, Clint and Jessica were the last to arrive, or so they thought, due to the fact that they were coming from the farthest away (Clint wasn't, but he had to go get the girls and spare them the indignity of being dropped off by Mr. Fury) and there had been an unexpected detour and traffic because of an accident or an exploded water pipe or something. 

Pepper was sitting on the couch, her clipboard perched on her jiggling knee. "Finally," she said, tapping her pen against it. "I was starting to think that you'd forgotten. Who's this?" She looked at Jessica curiously. 

They'd all forgotten that the two of them hadn't met. 

"This is Jessica," Natasha said. "She is maybe helping with costumes."

"Maybe?" Pepper asked, her eyebrows going up.

"Probably," Jessica said, and sat down next to Carol, who was talking animatedly to Steve like they were old friends. 

"Great," Pepper said. "Now that everyone's here—"

"Bruce isn't," Steve said. "Bruce isn't here yet. Does anyone know where he is?"

They all looked at Tony as the one most likely to know Bruce's whereabouts; they were best friends and partners in science, after all, but Tony just shrugged. "He hasn't called," he said. "He was actually supposed to come over early to work on a project but he didn't show up."

"Did you try calling him?" Pepper asked, impatient. "We can't wait forever."

Tony sighed and took out his phone. "Straight to voicemail," he said, and sent a text message instead, although if Bruce's phone was off, it wasn't going to help. "We have to order food anyway," he pointed out. "It'll take a little while to come. We don't want to start the movie before it gets here, right?"

Pepper sighed, but conceded that it would be better to have the food before they started the movie so they didn't have to stop in the middle. "I don't see why you didn't order ahead of time to have it delivered," she said. "You knew what time we were coming."

"I didn't know what we wanted," Tony said. "I didn't think to do a poll ahead of time, and anyway, if I'd asked you three days ago what you wanted for dinner today, you might have changed your mind between now and then."

"I thought we were just getting pizza," Pepper said. "Isn't that what people usually do for these kinds of things?"

Tony rolled his eyes. "Usually, but when have I ever done what it usual? Pizza is too pedestrian for this soiree. What do people want?" He aimed his phone at the screen of what Clint had assumed was a TV but what might have been a computer monitor instead, or maybe some kind of hybrid machine of Tony's own devising. Clint wouldn't put it past him.

On the screen, he made a few clicks and a list of menus displayed. Not computer menus; restaurant menus. "Take your pick," he said.

"I take it you do this often," Steve said.

"I'm not much of a cook," Tony said. "I was thinking Indian."

There were shrugs and murmurs of agreement, or at least acquiescence, so Tony clicked open one of the menus so they could look over the choices. 

"I've never had Indian food," Jessica said to no one in particular. 

Tony made a noise. "How can you have never had Indian?" he asked. "Were you raised by wolves?"

"No," Natasha said. "That was me." She flicked a glance at Jessica and added, "I never have had Indian food either." Clint wasn't sure whether she was telling the truth, or lying to help Jessica save face. Maybe some mix of both. He'd only had it a couple of times, and he suspected that the stuff he'd had hadn't been the highest quality, obtained along the road in the middle of nowhere. He wasn't picky in any case, so it really didn't matter to him.

"That's so sad," Tony said, wiping away a fake tear. "What kind of a melting pot can we truly call ourselves when our comrade hasn't even experienced the finest probably-not-very-authentic cuisine the area has to offer?"

"You are not funny," Natasha said. "There are plenty of things I have tried that you have not."

"Like what?" Tony asked. "I have a very diverse palate."

"Have you ever had borscht?" she asked.

Tony grimaced. "No, but—"

"But nothing! My poor deprived American friend, you have not experienced what Russia has to offer to the melting pot if you have not tried borscht!" Clint could tell she was taking the piss out of him, and he tried not to laugh. "I will make it for you," she said. "You can have a nice big bowl."

"Sounds, uh... great," Tony said. "But right now let's, uh, focus on the task at hand, which is Indian food, and the ordering thereof." 

Clint caught Natasha's eye. _What's b-o-r-s-t?_

_B-o-r-s-c-h-t,_ she corrected. _It's beet soup, the color of that stuff you take when you have an upset stomach, and I hate it. But I'll pretend to like it just to watch him force himself to eat even one spoonful._ She grinned, showing teeth.

_Remind me not to get on your bad side,_ Clint said with a stifled laugh.

_You say that like I have a good side,_ Natasha replied. He slid his arm around her shoulders and hugged her against him. She looked up at him and smiled. _Well, when you do that, I do,_ she told him.

Clint was glad that the lights weren't all that bright in the room, and that no one was paying attention to them anyway, so no one saw him blush.

They all picked out things that they were interested in trying, and Tony called the restaurant and placed the order, rattling off a credit card number like he had it memorized, which he obviously did. Clint would have been impressed if it hadn't made him feel kind of sad that this was obviously how Tony got most of his meals... when he remembered to eat at all, which judging by the looks of him, wasn't as often as it should be.

The food arrived about half an hour later, and they turned their attention from the conversations they'd been having (which were mostly not about the musical) to putting food on plates. Tony had tried texting and calling Bruce a few more times, but to no avail.

Finally they gave up and started without him. They were made twenty minutes in to the first act when their wayward friend finally turned up, stumbling in the dark to plunk himself down in between Clint and Tony. "Sorry," he said. "Sorry I'm late. Something... came up."

"Foods on the table over there," Tony said, hitting pause. "We'll wait."

"Sorry," Bruce said as he picked his way past everyone again, filling a plate and returning to his seat. "You didn't have to pause it," he said. "I've already missed some anyway."

"It's not a big deal," Tony said. "We can start over if you want."

"That's okay," Bruce said. "Really. I'm sure I'll catch on." He flashed a nervous smile and pushed his glasses up his nose. 

"You sure?" Tony asked. "It's really not a big deal if you would rather we started from the beginning again. It's only—"

"He said it's fine," Pepper snapped, then softened her tone. "He can always watch the first twenty minutes afterward. Right?"

"Right," Bruce agreed. 

Tony sighed and shrugged and hit play again, and they all sat back.

Bruce was tense; Clint could feel it even though there was over a foot of space between them. He wondered if Tony could too, or if his own natural jitteriness would make it so that he didn't sense it in his friend. He squeezed Natasha's arm, a little less gently than he'd meant to, and she looked at him. He jerked his chin toward Bruce and she looked past him and frowned, then shrugged as if to say, 'There's nothing we can do about it right now.'

Which was true enough. The important thing at the moment was to watch the show, maybe take a few notes (yeah right – he would leave that to Pepper), and give Bruce a chance to eat and relax... which he eventually did, although it wasn't until after the intermission (which they paused to give everyone a bathroom break and a chance to stretch a little before starting up again). 

When it was over, they spent a little while talking about it, tossing around ideas while Pepper scribbled furiously. "A lot is going to depend on who gets cast in what role, I think," she said. "But it's good to have a few ideas about what direction we might want to go in. Obviously we don't have the kind of budget that—"

"We could," Tony pointed out. "I mean—"

"That's not what I'm saying," Pepper interrupted. "If Stark Industries wants to help out, they are welcome to buy an ad in the program, but otherwise we have to work within the constraints of what the school gives us and what we're able to raise. _No_ donations."

Which wasn't strictly true, Clint was pretty sure, but he got that she didn't want Tony just magically making everything okay by tossing money at it, even if that was what most people thought he did best. 

"What was I saying?" Pepper continued. "Oh, right. We don't have the kind of budget that the production we just watched did, so we're going to have to streamline things, but I think if we all work together, we can make this really great." She smiled brightly at them.

"Right," Tony said. "Good pep talk, Pepper." He grinned at his own pun while everyone else groaned. "Everyone is welcome to stay as late as they want," he said. "We can watch another movie or whatever people want."

"I have to get home," Pepper said. "Thank you all for coming, though. I think this was really productive, and I really look forward to working with all of you on this." She smiled and waved and left, but everyone else stayed.

It was on the tips of everyone's tongues, but none of them asked Bruce why he'd been late. It just wasn't how they worked. Instead, they argued until they finally decided on a movie that everyone could stand to watch. People got up to get seconds of food, changing seats and rearranging themselves until they were comfortable. 

Natasha tucked herself more closely against Clint's side, curled in such a way that it created a sort of sheltered space between them. _He looks..._ But she didn't seem to have any words for how Bruce looked, or maybe she just didn't think she needed to say them. 

Clint held up his hand and made it tremble. Not an official sign (at least not that he knew of) but it got the point across. Natasha nodded. 

_What... do you think we can do anything?_ , Clint asked.

She bit the inside of her lip, frowning, then shook her head slowly. _Not unless he asks._

_What if he doesn't know how to ask?_

_People can't accept help that they're not ready for,_ Natasha replied. 

_If I'd known sooner..._

She cut him off. _This isn't about me._

Clint sighed and slid his arm around her, pressing a kiss to her hair. She was right, of course. It wasn't about her, and she was safe now, and that was done and over with and she had moved on, so why couldn't he?

Except he knew she still had nightmares, and so did he, and maybe she always would... and maybe he would too. He felt her arm worm its way between his back and the couch, circling his waist, and her other hand laid gently on his chest, just at the base of his sternum, protecting that soft place that, if hit, could knock the wind out of a person. There was nothing to protect him from, of course, but she did it nonetheless, and Clint wondered if she realized.

"Get a room, you two," Tony said, throwing a pillow at them. 

Clint caught it and tucked it behind his head. "Thanks." 

Tony grumbled something about freakish levels of hand-eye coordination and took his place beside Bruce, poking his friend in the side with a questioning look on his face. Bruce shook his head, and Tony shrugged, and pressed play.

The movie was a comedy, and they spent as much time mocking it as they did paying attention, but they were all laughing and by the time it was done, Bruce looked a lot more himself. Steve yawned and stretched and asked if anyone needed a ride home, and they teased him about being an old man. 

"Yeah, yeah," he said. "Seriously, though, does anyone need a ride?"

Clint shook his head. "I've got me, Nat, and Jess."

"I drove myself," Carol said.

"Bruce is staying here," Tony announced. When Bruce looked ready to protest, he put on his best stern look. "We lost time on our project earlier. We can make it up tomorrow." There was a silent argument between them that apparently Bruce lost, because he finally shrugged and said, "Right, okay."

"Another movie?" Tony suggested. "Games? Wait! No. _The Rocketeer._ " He looked at Steve. "Sit down. We're watching _The Rocketeer_ whether you like it or not."

Surprisingly, Steve sat down. "I hope it's not too long," he said. "I really do need—"

"You can soak your dentures later," Tony said. "Come on. We're having fun!" He made sure that there was plenty of sugar and caffeine to go around before starting the movie, but even with that, they were all yawning (all except Tony, who apparently didn't actually require sleep to function) by the time it ended.

"Okay," Steve said. "Now I really have to go."

"So do we," Clint said, waiting for a half-asleep Natasha to disentangle herself from the blanket she'd pulled over them. 

Carol stood up, and immediately wobbled, then grinned. "Oops," she said. She took an unsteady step forward and banged her knee into the coffee table. "Ow! Damn it!"

Jess was up in an instant, catching her and wrapping her arm around her shoulder. "You okay?" she asked.

"Fine," Carol said, so close that her nose brushed against Jessica's cheek. 

Clint saw her nose wrinkle and wondered how they'd all missed the fact that she was drinking. She'd probably been pouring it into her soda, but where had she gotten it in the first place? Tony hadn't offered anything, and he assumed that the liquor cabinet was kept locked. As far as he knew, he was the only one of them who knew how to pick locks... but then they didn't really know much about Carol, did they?

Jessica looked at them again, then tightened her arm around Carol and said, "You don't have anywhere to be tomorrow, right?"

"Nah," Carol said. "Why?"

"You're coming home with us, then," she said. "With me." The look she shot Clint and Natasha dared them to try to contradict her, but neither of them had any intention of doing so.

Carol looked at her, her head cocked to the side but at a strange angle like it was too heavy for her to hold up. "You sure?"

"I'm sure," Jess said. "Come on." 

_Looks like we've got more problems than we thought,_ Clint said, after they'd said good night to the others. 

Natasha just sighed and watched as Steve helped Jess pour Carol into the back seat. _Let's hope cleaning vomit from your upholstery doesn't become one of them._


	13. Chapter 13

"Clint, is that you?" Mrs. Sullivan called from the kitchen as he came in the door.

"Yeah." Instead of heading straight upstairs, he went to see what she wanted.

"Where were you?" she asked.

"Over at Natasha's. Study group," he said. It wasn't a lie; with him, Natasha, Jessica and Carol, it was definitely a group, and studying had happened. It had sort of become a habit somewhere along the line. Yes, it had been interrupted by Jessica randomly deciding that it was absolutely necessary to bake something right that second, and several moments of, 'Hold on, you just reminded me of something I saw on YouTube,' but they did get their homework done so the adults couldn't complain.

"Did you eat?" she asked, glancing at the clock. "If not, there's—"

"I ate. Sunday is pizza night, and I'm the best one at stretching the dough." He grinned, and wonder of wonders, Mrs. Sullivan smiled back.

"Fair enough," she said. "I just wanted to remind you that on Wednesday you need to come home right after school, because we want to get on the road as early as possible to try to beat traffic."

"Where are you going?" he asked.

"To my mother's for Thanksgiving," she said. "We go every year." She frowned slightly, corrected herself. "Nearly every year."

He remembered that. They hadn't made a big deal about it, but he'd known that they were skipping their annual trip, and he'd known too it was because they'd been afraid at the time that he was a flight risk and would use the chaos of the holiday and travel to take off.

If it hadn't been for Natasha, they might have been right. But she'd kept him in place even then, when they'd only known each other a few weeks at that point. Now... now they'd known each other over a year, and been together for... almost nine months? It felt like so much longer, and like no time at all. 

Anyway, he wasn't going anywhere, then or now.

"What's that got to do with me?" he asked. 

Her eyebrows went up. "I'm sorry?"

Okay, maybe he could have phrased that better. He tried again. "Why do I have to be home early, especially if you're going somewhere?" Wouldn't she rather he was somewhere with adult supervision than home alone? 

Her forehead furrowed and her mouth curved down into a frown. " _We_ are going to my mother's," she said. "All of us."

Well he hadn't thought they were going to leave one of the boys behind, and it would take both of the Sullivans to keep the three of them in line. So they were leaving him home alone. So what? 

Unless maybe that wasn't legal? Could you leave a foster kid to his own devices, even for a few days? But he was eighteen, and maybe that made a difference. In any case, it didn't matter. If she wanted him to come home right after school, he would. "Sure, he said. "No problem. I'll be home early so you can know where I am before you leave or whatever."

"I don't think you understand," Mrs. Sullivan said. "When I say 'we' and 'all of us' I _mean_ we and all of us. Including you."

"Oh." Was _that_ what this was all about? Clint shook his head. "Sorry. I already made plans."

"Excuse me?"

"I said I already made plans." 

Really, Tony had made plans for them. He'd announced after the musical crew meeting on Friday, "Thanksgiving. My place. Be there." No one had argued, and they all assumed (or hoped) that further details would be forthcoming. The fact that they would comply wasn't even a question.

"You already made plans."

"Yeah." 

"Well, I'm sorry, but you're going to have to break them, because Thanksgiving is about family, and—"

"I know," Clint said. "Which is why I can't break them. Thanksgiving is about family, and that's who I'm going to spend it with."

Her tone turned icy. "What family is that, then, if not this one?"

"Natasha. Tony. Bruce. Steve." It was his first holiday without his mother, although Tony wasn't always the most aware person in the world when it came to other people, he knew about losing a parent, and Clint was pretty sure that had factored in to the invitation. And really, none of them had families like she thought of family (well, maybe Carol, but he wasn't sure). The safest, most comfortable place for all of them was together. 

"Those are your friends," she said. "Not family. I know that—"

"No, you don't," Clint said. "You don't know anything about it. I'm not going with you. End of story." He turned to go.

"You aren't going anywhere," she said. He could have pretended not to hear her, but it would only make things worse. "Come in here and sit down."

Clint weighed his options and decided that at this point, it was probably better to do what she said. There was no way he could win the argument if he didn't actually have it, after all. So he set down his backpack and sat down at the kitchen table, his arms crossed. "There's nothing you can say that's gonna change my mind," he said, "so there's really no point in trying. You didn't make me go with you last Christmas and—"

"We were trying to cut you some slack last Christmas," she replied. "We didn't want to push things too far, too fast, because even though you'd been here six months already, it was clear that you still weren't completely comfortable. It's been over a year now, and it's about time that you started actually acting as if you're part of this family."

They'd managed to get along back on his birthday, managed to come to some kind of understanding... but it seemed like maybe she'd misunderstood the understanding, and if he didn't straighten it out, it was just going to get worse.

"I'm not," Clint said. "I'm not part of this family. I live here, and you guys make sure that I have food and everything I need – and that's great and thank you for doing it, but I'm not like the other boys. You aren't my mom and Mr. Sullivan isn't my dad and no matter how long I stay here or how many relatives I meet, that ain't gonna change. Ever."

Mrs. Sullivan looked like he's slapped her. In a way he had; he knew that words could hurt a lot worse than fists. But what planet was she living on if she thought that he was just going to suddenly act like he was their son, like they were his parents and the brats were his brothers and...

"You don't even _like_ me," he pointed out. 

"That's not—" she started.

"Don't lie to me," he said. The words were harsh, but necessary if they were ever going to be on the same page. "Worse, don't lie to yourself. You don't like me, you don't want me here. You tried your best, but I'm too old a dog to learn new tricks and so every time you look at me you just see a failure. _Your_ failure, even though no one sees it that way but you. I'm never gonna be one of your boys. I'm just a kid who lives here, and what's wrong with that?"

She didn't say anything for a long time. She just stared at him, and stared, and stared until he wanted to squirm but wouldn't give her the satisfaction of knowing she was getting to him with that strange, cold, blank look. 

"Well it seems that you've already got everything figured out, don't you?" she asked, but it wasn't really a question. "You know everything there is to know about how all of this works. You even know what's going on in my head, apparently. So you're right, there's no point in arguing about it. I'm just going to say this: I am asking you to do one thing. We really don't ask much of you, Clinton, and I am asking for _one_ thing. And if that's too much for you to give, then I think maybe it's time for us to find you somewhere else to stay. Because this is a family, and this is a _home_ , and that requires willing participation by everyone involved. We're not keeping you against your will. You're eighteen, and free to go at any time. You know where the door is. But you need to understand that if you walk out, you don't get to just walk back in again." 

And there it was. The other shoe, the one he'd been waiting for since his birthday, dropping. At least he had a car, so whatever happened, he had a place to stay in out of the cold until he figured something out that was more permanent. 

"Don't bother," he said, standing up. "I'll find somewhere myself."

He went up to his room and took the things that he'd arrived with, and the things that had been given to him by friends, nothing more. His laptop, his phone, all of it, he left behind, because the Sullivans had paid for them and they weren't his to keep. It meant his whole life fit into a battered old backpack again. 

He left his house key on the table next to the door as he left.

He drove to Natasha's house, because where else was he going to go? If nothing else, it would be a place to spend the night until he figured something else out. He parked in front and went to the door, trying to knob because they lived far enough out in the middle of nowhere that if people were home and awake they didn't always lock it. (Although that depended on how secure – or insecure – one or both of the girls were feeling at the time.)

It was locked, so he knocked and waited.

Mr. Fury came to the door and looked at him curiously. "Did you forget something?" he asked, letting him in.

"Um... not exactly," Clint said. "I, uh..."

Natasha came down the stairs, looked at him, frowned. _What happened?_

_I got into a fight with Mrs. Sullivan,_ he told her. _She kicked me out._

She swore in Russian, then held her hand out to him. He took it and started to follow her upstairs, but Mr. Fury stopped them. "Excuse me," he said. "What's going on?"

"He is staying," Natasha told him. "He needs to stay."

His eyebrows went up. "Excuse me?" he said again.

"I owe him at least this," Natasha said, "for every time he keeps me safe when I have nowhere to go. He is staying." She started back up the stairs and Clint followed, but with a sick feeling in his gut like this was all about to blow up in his face somehow. But Mr. Fury didn't stop them this time, and they shut themselves in her room.

_What happened?_ , she asked again, and he told her.

In the retelling, it all seemed pretty melodramatic, and maybe he could have handled it better, but he wasn't about to let Mrs. Sullivan tell him what to do or where to go, who he could spend the holidays with and who he couldn't. He didn't care about her ideas of family; he had his and even if it wasn't the people that he shared a roof with, so what?

When he was done, Natasha shrugged and replied matter-of-factly, _You will stay here._

_I'm not sure Mr. Fury is going to agree with that,_ Clint said. _He didn't look too happy about me showing up unannounced._

She shrugged again, waving her hand dismissively. _I'll explain it to him. I'll make him agree. You don't have anywhere else to go; he's not going to make you live on the streets._

_I have my car,_ he replied, but she just rolled her eyes. Which, given the fact that the temperature was dropping below freezing pretty regularly at night, wasn't exactly a silly reaction. It wasn't really a viable solution.

_I'll go to talk to him,_ she said. _Stay here._ And she kissed him and stroked back his hair at the temple, and went downstairs.

For a few minutes everything was quiet, but then he started to hear raised voices, mostly Natasha's, then nothing at all, but he knew that sometimes when she got really angry she stopped shouting and dropped into this low, intense almost-whisper that was, well, terrifying, because it meant that her anger was so deep and strong that even shouting wasn't enough, and now she was holding it back, like a grenade waiting for its pin to be pulled.

And then the door opened and she came back in, went to the closet and pulled out her bag. She began to shove things into it, her face expressionless, and when he reached out to touch her she jerked away. 

_'Tasha, what's going on?_ , he asked. 

_We're leaving._

_What do you mean?_

_I mean we're leaving._

_Why?_

She stopped, looked at him, her jaw clenched so tight it made veins (or tendons or whatever) bulge on the sides of her neck. _He says you can't stay. If you can't stay, then neither will I._

Clint didn't know what to say to that. He'd sort of assumed that Mr. Fury would let him, and knowing that he wouldn't... The little bit of hope he'd been clinging to cracked and fell away. What was worse, though, was knowing that he was dragging Natasha into it with him. He'd talked before about taking her away from everything, but that was when she'd had something to escape. That was when she needed to get away to be safe. 

Now that it was him, his problems... and they weren't even big problems, really, not like what she'd been through, not like what Jessica had been through (although they still didn't entirely know what that was), or Bruce... He had it okay with the Sullivans, and Natasha was in a good place here with Mr. Fury, and...

He'd fucked up. He'd fucked up big time, and he didn't know how to fix it.

She finished packing. She wasn't taking much; maybe she'd done the same as him and only took what she'd arrived with, or maybe a little more. It was only one bag, whatever the case. 

Two kids, two bags, one car... and nowhere to go.

Was that really what it had all come down to?

"You can't just leave," Jessica said as they walked past, and Clint wondered how much she'd heard of Natasha and Mr. Fury's argument. "I'll tell him I don't care. I'll tell him it doesn't matter to me. You can't just go like this."

Clint didn't understand what she was talking about, but Natasha just looked at her, her blue eyes like ice. "Watch us."

Jessica followed them down the stairs, and when Natasha tried to slam the door behind them, she caught it and kept it open. She didn't say anything, just watched them as they got into Clint's car and drove off.

At first he just drove, and Natasha said nothing. She reached across and squeezed his shoulder, then cupped her hand over the back of his neck, just letting it rest there, skin on skin, reassuring him that she was there, maybe, or maybe comforting herself. 

How long would it take before she realized she'd made a mistake? How long before she figured out that she was throwing away something good for someone who had nothing to give her? How long before she realized he was worthless and walked away?

They had nowhere to go, and Clint didn't know how to tell her that. Every other time she'd needed him, he'd managed to figure something out, but now he was out of ideas, and he was about to just pull into a parking lot and try to convince her to go back to Mr. Fury's when he caught a look at one of the street signs and realized where they were.

He drove around the block and up the road, stopping in front of one of the houses. The windows were dark except for one of the ones upstairs, which Clint hoped meant that he was still awake. He looked at Natasha. "It's... I don't know where else to go," he said. "It's just for tonight."

She nodded, and they got out of the car. Clint pushed the doorbell, and hoped that it didn't give Steve a heart attack. It wasn't _that_ late... but it wasn't exactly early, either. And Steve was great under pressure, but Clint was worried that stress might trigger an asthma attack or something, and he really didn't want to spend another night in the ER.

He reached for the doorbell again but Natasha stopped him. "He's coming," she said. "I hear footsteps."

The door opened, and Steve peered out, his eyes going wide when he saw them. "What...?"

"It's a long story," Clint said. "Can we come in?"

"Sure, of course," Steve said, opening the door wider. "Do you, uh... do you want some tea? Or hot cocoa?"

Tea or hot cocoa. Of course that would be Steve's immediate response. It was such a... motherly thing to offer. "Sure," Clint said. "Cocoa's good."

"Yes, thank you," Natasha added. 

They set down their bags and tried to stay out of the way as Steve bustled around the kitchen, putting on hot water and putting chocolate powder into mugs. He even had whipped cream to put on top. "Come into the living room," he said, "and tell me what happened."

So they told him, Clint about the argument with Mrs. Sullivan about where he was spending Thanksgiving, and Natasha about the fight she'd had with Mr. Fury about whether Clint could stay with them for more than just a night, and both of their decisions to leave.

Steve sighed. "You can stay here tonight," he said. "I'll find blankets and a sleeping bag. One of you will have to sleep on the floor. But..."

Natasha bristled. "But what?"

"But you can't stay here forever. Clint's eighteen, but you're not, Natasha. And you're staying with Mr. Fury for a reason, right? I get where you're coming from, both of you. I do. And I get the whole, if you don't stand for something, you'll fall for anything thing... if that's what this is. But guys... you gotta pick your battles, and is this the one you really want to make a stand on? Like... is it going to kill you to go spend a few days with their relatives?" he asked Clint.

"Kill me? No. But that ain't my family. You guys are, and... None of us have families. Not like she thinks of. Your parents, and mine, 'Tasha's... Tony and Bruce's moms... They're all gone. Jessica had to leave her family. And they don't get that. The Sullivans think they do because they've had so many foster kids, but they don't. They don't get that no matter how understanding they try to be, no one else gets what it's like to have no family left except other people who have no family left. We've made our own family, and that's who I want to be with."

"Did you tell her that?" Steve asked.

"Yes!" Clint said, then sighed. "Well, sort of."

"Maybe you should try more than 'sort of' telling her," Steve pointed out. "Maybe you're going to have to really tell her."

"It's too late," Clint said. "She already kicked me out."

"She might have just said that in the heat of the moment," Steve said. "She deals with a lot, from what you've said about your younger... about the other kids. So maybe she'd had a rough day and maybe this was the last straw. You should talk to her again, and to your foster father, and..." He looked at Clint. "If you could go back, would you?"

Clint looked at Natasha. If he could stay with her, no, he wouldn't. But if staying with her meant she couldn't be at Fury's, meant that they wouldn't have anywhere to be, meant that they would struggle every day and meant that she might have to struggle just to finish school, after everything she'd been through, after everything they'd fought for...

He couldn't do that to her. Even if leaving Fury's was her own decision, and even if it was a sacrifice she was willing to make, he was afraid that in the long run, it would wear her down, wear them both down, and what they had would slowly crumble.

And the last thing he wanted was to lose her.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess I would."

"And would you go back to Mr. Fury's?" Steve asked, "and try to work things out?"

"If he was safe," Natasha said, glancing at Clint. 

"Then... go sleep. We'll figure it out in the morning."

Steve supplied the blankets and sleeping bag he'd promised, but neither of them slept on the floor. They wedged themselves both into the sleeping bag on the couch, wiggling until they found a position that was comfortable for both of them, and fell asleep tense, tangled so close they lost track of whose heartbeat was whose.


	14. Chapter 14

They rode up in the elevator, not sure what to expect when they got to the top. Tony had told them to come at whatever time they wanted, that there would be snacks all day and the big meal mid-afternoon, but if they couldn't come until later that was fine, there would be leftovers and desserts.

Jessica had asked if they should bring anything, and he'd told them no, the food would all be taken care of, but if they _wanted_ to bring something, he wasn't going to stop them, and oh yeah, if there was anything special that they wanted in particular, let him know so he could make sure that they had it. 

It surprised Clint how much this all seemed to mean to him, and he couldn't help wondering what past Thanksgivings had been like for him. When his mom was alive, had she made a big deal about it? Or maybe it was the opposite, and his father had always dismissed it as not important (which, from what Clint had gathered, was how he handled pretty much everything related to family) and now Tony was trying to make up for it?

Jessica had made pumpkin pie (she'd actually made two, because it was apparently Carol's favorite and she'd claimed that she could eat one all on her own) with almost no assistance. Apparently somewhere along the line she'd mastered the art of pie crust, which Natasha seemed to think was no small miracle. For her part, Natasha had made the borscht that she'd threatened Tony with, and she was determined to make him try it.

"I think I figured out why it's called borscht," Clint had said when she'd shown it to him. She raised an eyebrow and he grinned. "I'm pretty sure that's the sound that you make when it comes back up."

Natasha had snorted and Jessica had smirked, and it had felt good to just be able to share a normal moment with them. It was reassuring, after the couple of days of turmoil that they'd all had as they'd sorted out the mess from Sunday night. But Natasha was back at Mr. Fury's, and Clint was back at the Sullivans (after a long, exhausting conversation where Mr. Sullivan had had to play mediator and interpreter to keep it from turning into a pitched battle). He'd been allowed to skip the Thanksgiving trip, but only after he'd finally shown his card... sort of... and said that Tony was doing all of this for Steve, because he didn't have anyone, and they all wanted to be there to support him.

That, at least, she'd seemed to understand. When it wasn't just him being stubborn, when he was actually trying to do something nice for someone else, she'd started to see how it really was about family for him, even if he defined it differently than she did.

When they arrived just before noon, Steve was already there, and so was Bruce (much to their relief – they'd all been worried that something would come up with his dad and he would be late or not there at all), although he seemed even more subdued than usual.

"I talked to Thor," Steve said. "He's going to try to stop by later."

"Is he bringing Loki?" Tony asked. 

"I don't know," Steve said. "Does it matter?"

"It depends on if he behaves," Tony said. 

"I guess we'll see," Steve said.

"Carol is going to try to come," Jess offered, "but she has to go to a family thing in Boston, and she doesn't know how late they're going to stay." She sounded worried, although Clint wasn't sure that anyone but him and Natasha picked up on it. The others still didn't know Jess that well, and she could be hard to read.

"The more, the merrier," Tony said, a little too cheerfully. "If you have something that needs to be kept warm, or cold, or whatever, bring it to the kitchen and we'll get it taken care of."

They handed over the food and went into the living room, picking at the snack foods that had been set out. Tony tried to keep the banter going, trying to pick up the mood that was obviously pretty low, but eventually even he gave up and put in a movie instead, leaving each of them to decide whether to pay attention or sink into their own private worlds of grief or whatever they were feeling.

Dinner ended up a little later than originally planned, but that was because Thor called to let them know that they – yes, Loki was apparently coming to – were on their way. And then Carol showed up, bright and bubbly and a little brittle, and no one asked questions about how she'd made it from Boston to here at this hour, because the only possible explanation was that she'd skipped the family meal, and that was very likely an open wound they didn't want to poke at.

The biggest surprise, though, was when they were just sitting down at the table, and the elevator opened again... and in stepped none other than Pepper Potts. "I'm not too late, am I?" she asked. 

No one had known she was even invited, but they tried to hide their surprise at her appearance. Of all of them, they'd assumed that Pepper, at least, would have a great big happy family to spend the holiday with. After all, she wasn't one of Mr. Coulson's band of misfits. She wasn't in foster care, she didn't have any dead parents (that they knew of) and she was just so intensely, adamantly in control of her life that...

... that they should have known it was all an act, Clint realized.

"Of course not," Tony said, and called to have another place set at the table.

So ten of them sat down at the table, Tony at one end and Steve at the other. Clint was in awe at the spread of food, but he probably should have expected it. It looked like what you'd see on TV, in one of those heartwarming family movies where everyone's life sucks until they discover the true meaning of the holidays or whatever. (He and his brother had turned those into a drinking game one year when they'd actually had a TV.)

"Who's going to do the honors?" Thor asked, looking at the turkey like he wanted to rip one of its legs off and tear into it. He looked at Tony, then at Steve. 

"You can," Tony said, deferring to Steve. "Age before beauty." 

Steve flashed a lopsided smile. "Hopefully I don't hack the thing apart. It looks almost too good to eat." But he managed to carve it without too much drama; it didn't go flying and most of the slices were roughly even. Thor did, in fact, ask for one of the drumsticks, which was handed over without question (even if they all had the same one on the tips of their tongues: how can you _still_ be hungry?!). 

It was quiet for a while, as dishes were passed and they began to eat. Everyone tried (in many cases via extreme peer pressure) the borscht. Steve tried to finish what he'd taken, to be polite, until Natasha told him that really, he didn't have to, she knew it was terrible and she'd only brought it to watch Tony's face. Which had, in fact, been epic, and Clint hoped someone had caught a picture of it. Only Thor seemed to like it, but they were all convinced that Thor would eat just about anything without complaint, so they didn't really count his culinary opinion.

As they started to slow down, Steve tapped his knife against the side of his glass, which was meant for wine and filled with water, although Tony had offered. Some of them had taken him up on it, but not Steve. "I have something I want to say," he announced, once he had their attention. "In my family, we have a tradition. On Thanksgiving, we all go around the table and say one thing that we're thankful for. And I know you probably think it's corny, but..."

But how could they say no, when he brought up family tradition and they all knew that he didn't really have any family left?

"The rule is that you can't say the same thing that someone else has said. So I'll start. This year, I'm thankful that..." He paused, took a sip of water, blinked hard. "I'm thankful for two things, actually. I'm thankful that my mother finally passed, and that it was peaceful, and... and that she was able to keep her promise that she would be there at my graduation." 

They shifted in their seats, uncomfortable as they watched him struggle to get his emotions under control, and because most of them knew they'd played a role in that so he was also thanking them again, when it really hadn't been anything special that they'd done. It was just what friends _did_.

"And I'm thankful for all of you, for this meal and the invitation. If it wasn't for this, I would have ended up at some relative's house, and they all would have been walking on eggshells around me, or trying to keep her memory alive, or something that would have made it feel awkward and impossible to, to celebrate the holiday. My mother loved holidays, all of them, and even when we didn't have much, she would make the most of it. She loved Thanksgiving, and she would have loved this. So... thank you."

Thor reached out and clapped Steve on the shoulder, squeezing it and smiling. "I'm thankful for family," he said, "and for being home. College is great, but it can't replace the feeling of being with the people who know you best and care the most about you. I think family is the most important thing any of us have – however you define it." He looked around and beamed at every one of them, even Carol and Jess who he'd only just met, giving them all the feeling that they were included in his definition of family.

Loki sat next to him, and he screwed up his face. "I'm thankful that I got the part I wanted in the play," he said, self-centered as usual. But Clint had to cut him a little slack; after dead parents and friends and family, it was hard to come up with something that carried the same gravitas. Then Loki mumbled something that Clint didn't catch.

_What did he say?_ , he asked Natasha.

_He said he was thankful to be invited today,_ she told him.

_**Was** he invited, or did Thor just bring him?_

Natasha shrugged, and Jess looked over at them and wrinkled her nose. "No secret languages at the dinner table," she said, but without any real ire, and everyone laughed.

"I'm thankful – just this once, just today, so don't get any ideas," Pepper said, looking at Tony, "that sometimes people are persistent even in the face of _constant_ rejection." She laughed softly, and everyone else did too, although mostly at the way that Tony perked up like a dog that had just been thrown a bone.

"I'm..." Bruce cleared his throat, rubbed the back of his neck, pushed his glasses back up his nose. "I'm glad that my father is, uh, is back in rehab," he said, and then looked at Tony to fill in the awkward silence that immediately followed.

"I'm thankful for money," Tony said. "I'm thankful that I have the money to do stuff like this, for everyone, so that we all can have the holiday that we deserve, and I'm thankful that my father pretty much just lets me do whatever I want."

He looked at Clint, and Clint realized he'd been so busy listening that he'd forgotten that he had a turn coming up. He froze, and Natasha must have felt him tense because she jumped in to save him. "I am thankful for Mr. Coulson, and that when he decide I must have guide for first days at school, he pick someone who does not know how to take a hint." 

Clint grinned at her, and knew then what we wanted to say. "I'm thankful for pseudo-successful revenge plots and for the fact that when the stakes are highest, people show their true colors." 

That got a lot of raised eyebrows, but no one seemed to quite know how to ask him just what the heck he meant by that... which was kind of what he'd been counting on. He felt Natasha's hand on his knee under the table, and he reached down to lace their fingers together.

Jess was next, and she frowned, poked at her food with her fork. "I'm thankful," she said finally, "that my parents were wrong." 

Carol reached over and tucked back a strand of her hair, forcing her to look up. 'You're okay,' she mouthed, and it was enough, it seemed, to draw Jessica out of whatever dark place she'd started to sink into. Then she turned to the rest of them and smiled brightly. "I'm thankful that I know where my father hid the keys." She held them up, jingling, and then tucked them back into her pocket. "Oh, and pie. I'm really thankful for pie."

And with that, they moved one from the meal to dessert, and by the time they were done they were all too stuffed to move much of anywhere. Luckily, most of them already had permission to stay the night, and those that didn't pretty quickly obtained it... or didn't bother, in Carol's case, but they weren't the bosses of her. 

The night passed with movies and conversation, music... a few science experiments that threatened to go terribly wrong, and a lot of laughter. 

_Better than last year?_ , Clint asked Natasha, hours later as the revelry began to quiet, and then wished he hadn't reminded her as her blue eyes went stormy. _Sorry. I shouldn't have..._

_Prove it,_ she said, and then kissed him hard before he had a chance to figure out what she meant by that. They said good night not long after, and if anyone had anything to say about it, they were smart enough to keep it to themselves, at least until they were out of earshot.

They locked the door to the guest room they'd been given, and not a word was exchanged, spoken or signed. There was something hard in Natasha's expression, something rigid and fierce, defiant and a little cold, and Clint didn't know what to make of it. He thought maybe he should try to ask what was wrong, what he could do, but he didn't think he would get an answer, and anyway, she showed him. She showed him what he could do...

... and when they laid together, sweaty, limbs tangled, his fingers laced through her hair, her palms pressed over his heart, he thought maybe he understood, without her having to tell him. 

He'd reminded her, without meaning to, of a very bad time, the worst time, maybe, of her entire life. And maybe she'd needed this – him – to remind herself that that was over, that her body was hers and that...

Aw, hell. Who was he to put thoughts into people's heads?

_Thank you,_ she signed, and kissed his nose. _Better than last year, yes._

_I'm glad,_ Clint told her.

_I know._

And the second time was gentle, just him and her and nothing to prove.


	15. Chapter 15

_Tell me again who decided this was a good idea?_ Natasha glared at the man who bumped into her as he passed, his arms laden with bags from stores that Clint doubted he would have ever walked into on his own as he stumbled after a woman – wife, maybe, or girlfriend – who was tapping at the screen of her phone, checking off someone on her shopping list, maybe. 

_Jessica,_ Clint replied. _But it has to get done._

Although maybe Steve was really to blame, with his one big happy family attitude and his holiday spirit that they'd kindled on Thanksgiving, and which had been fed by the arrival of Christmas decorations at Tony's place the next day. There were trees and wreaths and holly everywhere, but it was all store bought, made by the finest florists shops or whoever was in charge of that kind of thing, and Tony had watched a platoon of hired help put it all up with a sigh.

"We should do something," Steve had suggested. "For the holidays. For each other. I know a lot of us don't have a lot of money, so I was thinking we could do a Secret Santa."

So they'd all drawn names, and now they had to find gifts for that person. Nothing expensive, nothing elaborate, but the idea was to find little things to give throughout the month, and then they could do one bigger gift on Christmas.

"Hey," Jessica interrupted. "In English!"

Natasha rolled her eyes. "I am asking who thinks this is a good idea," she said. "Clint says you."

"What?" Jessica said. "Where else are we going to go?"

"Anywhere but here!" Natasha said. "I think everyone in the entire county is in this mall right now, today."

"I hope not," Jessica said. "If we run into anyone, it might give away the surprise."

Jessica had thrown herself rather gleefully into the idea of the Secret Santa, even though she probably knew the least about everyone (with the possible exception of Carol, but Carol was gregarious enough get to know people pretty quickly). 

"Who do you have?" Clint asked.

Jessica screwed up her face. "I can't tell you! It's a _secret_."

He sighed. Yeah, it was a secret. They weren't supposed to tell anyone whose name they'd pulled. Not their boyfriend or girlfriend, not their best friend, not the boyfriend or girlfriend or best friend of the person they'd drawn to pump them for ideas... no one.

Clint had gotten Carol, and he would have loved to have asked Jess what she might like, because other than the Red Sox, he didn't really have any idea what she was into. He knew she was smart, and she liked flying... but that didn't get him far. He didn't know who Natasha had pulled, but she'd seemed pleased when she looked at the piece of paper, so it must have been someone that would be easy to find things for.

And then he had to find something for her, and for the Sullivans, probably... a peace offering, of sorts. The last thing he needed was to make another mistake in the whole 'this is what a family looks like, this is what a family does' department right about now, or they might change their minds about letting him stay after all.

He heard Natasha say something to Jessica about Mr. Fury, and she cocked her head. "Really?"

"I think so." Natasha looked at Clint. "Yes?"

"What?" He frowned, looking at her. "Sorry." He said the word, and signed it. There was too much noise, with people talking and the echoing of their steps, the rustling of bags and the screaming of kids, the tinny music piped in... it was starting to drive him crazy.

_Do you think we should get something for Mr. Fury?_ , she asked. _Jessica and I?_

"English!" Jessica insisted, crossing her arms.

"No," Natasha said, interpreting for herself as she spoke so they both could understand. "Is probably very hard for him to hear. Is easier. You do not get to decide things you do not understand."

"Why don't we take a break?" Clint asked, before they could really get into it. They'd been there almost an hour and they were all still empty-handed. "I'm hungry."

"You're always hungry," Jess said, but she didn't argue when they headed for the food court. The rule was that they had to stay together. If Carol had been able to come, they could have split into pairs, but Mr. Fury had insisted that none of them go off on their own. 

"I'm not a child," Jessica had said, because of course it was primarily aimed at her. It wasn't likely that Clint and Natasha were going to go their separate ways. "I can handle shopping on my own." But Mr. Fury had told her that if she was going to go without him, she was going to stick with the other two, and that was final.

Of course they wouldn't have ratted her out if she had decided to go off on her own, but for all of her bravado about none of this being a big deal, Clint could see that she wasn't actually as comfortable as she pretended to be. She was careful to find the spaces between people to walk through, giving physical contact with strangers as wide a berth as possible.

They each found something they were willing to consider food (Natasha was the pickiest, followed by Jess, and Clint last – he would eat anything that wasn't moving, the girls joked) and then located a table in the corner that had just been left by a woman shopping with two children. Once they'd wiped up the ketchup smeared across the table's surface, they set down their trays and dug in.

"It's exciting, though," Jessica said, as if she was responding to someone, but neither of them had said anything. "All this hustle and bustle, people trying to find just the right gift. I mean, it's fun." But there was just the barest hint of a question in her voice.

Natasha rolled her eyes. "Maybe is fun for you," she said. Her tolerance for crowds was low, and her nerves had started to fray pretty early on. Clint had done his best to act as a buffer, but there was only so much he could do, especially when the incomprehensible clamor was starting to wear him down, too.

"You wouldn't know fun if it bit you in the butt," Jessica said. "You two are like an old married couple, and you're not even adults yet."

"I am," Clint said. 

Jessica snorted. "You're still in high school. Being 18 doesn't make you an adult."

"Neither does being out of high school," Clint said. "I knew plenty of people who never finished high school – some who never went – and they were old enough to be our parents and I still wouldn't call them adults, really."

"What makes an adult?" Natasha asked, narrowing her eyes at Jessica.

"Living on your own," Jessica said. "Taking care of yourself. Never doing anything interesting, going to bed early..." She grinned. "Come on. It's not that bad." But she gave them time to rest, until people started to glare at them because they wanted their seats, and they caved under the pressure of the impatient stares.

With food in their stomachs (and one of his hearing aids switched off – he'd told Natasha so she knew she might have help him out with interpreting) they were a little better equipped to face the crowds. They ducked into one store after another, finally starting to find things that would make good gifts for their Secret Santa and others they wanted to get gifts for.

They exited an electronics store where they hadn't gotten anything because they couldn't afford it, and Clint nearly crashed into Jessica as she stopped dead, then took a half-step back, turning around and trying to go back the way they'd come.

"What is it?" he asked. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing," she said, shaking her head and pushing him to make him turn around. "Nothing. Everything's fine."

But it was pretty obvious that everything was not fine as she dragged them into a department store and pretended to look at the clothing on the racks, even though none of it was anything she would ever wear. 

_What's happening?_ , Clint asked Natasha, hoping that maybe she would have a better idea than he did about what was going on in Jessica's head, but she just shook her head and shrugged. She didn't know either.

Finally, Jessica must have decided that it was safe again, because she extricated herself from the clearance racks and headed for the door to back out into the mall. They'd made it about five steps before a sharp voice stopped them. "Jessica?"

"Keep walking," Jess hissed, grabbing both of their hands and pulling. "Just keep walking."

"Jessica!" The voice was closer now, like whoever it was that was calling was closing in. They just kept moving, because Jessica was obviously determined to get away.

Unfortunately, it didn't work out. They ran up against the back of a group of women with strollers who seemed to be determined to take up the entire walkway. They were moving at a glacial pace, and there was no way around them without barging through. 

"Jessica Mason." The voice had a snap to it that carried through the noise, even for Clint. But then, it was coming from right behind them now, and an arm reached through, grabbed Jessica's shoulder, dug in and yanked her around. "I know you heard me calling you," the woman said. "I don't care who you think you are, you do not get to ignore your mother."

_Oh shit._ Clint glanced at Natasha, who was frowning so hard her forehead furrowed. He touched the back of her hand and she glanced at him, then spelled quickly, _M-A-S-O-N?_

Clint shrugged. He didn't know, but maybe they'd changed Jessica's last name to help protect her when she came to stay with Mr. Fury.

"I don't know who you're talking about," Jessica said. "I don't know who you are." But her skin was even paler than usual, stark against her black hair, and Clint could see the tension all through her that gave away the lie. 

"Oh, let's not start that nonsense," the woman said. Mrs. Drew. Or Mrs. Mason. Clint didn't know, and he didn't care. Whoever she was, she was freaking Jess out, and that wasn't okay.

"Excuse me," he said. "Can I help you?"

The woman looked at him, looked him up and down, and sniffed. "I think not."

That not-so-quick moment of assessment gave Clint a chance to get a good look at her himself. She was dressed in a plain blouse with a sweater over it, one of those button up ones that he mostly associated with old men, and a long, plain skirt. Her hair was pulled back, wrapped in a bun, and she wore shoes that looked like they belonged in Little House on the Prairie.

He was distracted from looking at her by a not so subtle tug on his hand. He looked over, and Natasha's jaw was set. She jerked her chin, and when he looked in the direction she was indicating, he saw that they were not alone. There were others, mostly women, dressed very much like the one who claimed to be Jessica's mother, and they were starting to close ranks around them.

Which was never a good thing.

"Come on," Clint said, putting his arm around Jess even though he wasn't sure she would appreciate being touched just then. "Let's get out of here."

"You can go," the woman said, "but Jessica is staying here. Or didn't she mention that she ran away from home? Didn't she tell you that she has a family, a husband that she has a duty to?"

_HUSBAND?_

Clint didn't flinch, or tried not to. Natasha looked unsurprised, or did a very good job of masking her surprise... one or the other, and it didn't really matter which at the moment. "I think," Natasha said coldly, "that you are making mistake. I think this is not the girl you are looking for."

"And I think that even if she _was_ the girl you were looking for, sixteen is too young to get married, so whatever crazy shit you've got going on, your Jessica Mason is better off far away from it," Clint said, which probably wasn't helpful but there was no way that he was letting this woman, any of these women, anywhere near Jessica.

"Come," Natasha said, slipping her arm through Jessica's and turning both of them away from the woman. Clint followed, but their way was blocked. "Don't do this," Natasha said to the women who had placed themselves in their path. "You do not have to do this."

"Yes, they do," Jessica said. "They do, because they were told to, and they always do what they're told."

"But we don't," Clint said. "They don't get to make the rules anymore." He tightened his arm around Jessica, and felt Natasha do the same, and then they just started walking. The women were left with only one choice – step aside or be run into.

Luckily, they stepped aside. Clint wasn't sure what would have happened if they hadn't. All he knew was that there was no way he was going to let them get at Jessica. 

Without speaking, without communicating a single word to each other, he and Natasha both headed for the door. It wasn't the one closest to their car, but it wasn't too far away, either. He could only hope that there was no one outside waiting to intercept them, no big burly men with a van and.... chloroform or something. 

But they made it back to the car unscathed, and the three of them piled into the back seat, Jessica in the middle, because he didn't know about Natasha, but he wasn't feeling quite up to going anywhere just yet. With the doors locked, a buffer between them and the rest of the world, he let out the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.

He reached past Jessica to touch Natasha's shoulder, and she turned her head, pressing her cheek against his hand. He turned his palm up and she kissed it, and then turned her attention to Jessica, who was staring blankly ahead of her. They could both feel her shaking.

"Are you okay?" Natasha asked.

Jessica nodded, then shook her head, then shrugged. 

"Is all right," Natasha said. "Just breathe."

Clint wasn't sure how long they sat there, the three of them crammed together close enough that he could feel the warmth of them, and they had no choice but to be touching. Eventually, Jess started to look a little less shell-shocked, and finally she took a deep breath and let it out in a huge sigh. "Sorry," she said. "Thank you."

"That is what friends are for," Natasha said. "You are ready to go home now?"

"We didn't actually finish shopping," Jessica said, which got her a look from Natasha that made her laugh. "Maybe somewhere else. Or some other time."

"Some other time," Natasha said. She'd had enough, and Clint agreed with her. Right now he just wanted to be home... her home, not his, because Mr. Fury's place felt safer, and anyway no one told them they had to leave the door open there, and there weren't any annoying kids running around barging in when they weren't wanted. 

They opened their doors and left Jessica in the back alone. Clint looked over at Natasha, but she didn't look back, so he just started the car and headed back, very likely to the relief of the people who had been eying their spot for who knows how long, thinking they would be leaving any minute now.

They were most of the way back to Mr. Fury's when Jessica said, "You're not going to ask?"

Clint glanced back at her in the mirror. Natasha turned to look at her. "If you want to talk, you will talk," she said simply. "Is not our business if you don't want it to be."

Jessica looked surprised at that, and Clint wasn't surprised when she didn't say anything else. When they got home, they went to their rooms – well, he want to Natasha's room, but there was a part of him that thought of it as their room – and no one said anything to Mr. Fury about it and luckily he didn't ask.

It wasn't until after dinner, after they'd gotten ready for bed, even, that there was a knock on Natasha's door. 

"Come in," Natasha said. She was standing in front of her dresser, brushing her hair.

Jessica opened the door and stepped in, closing it behind her. "She was my mother," she said. "I did run away. My last name isn't Mason, that's _his_ last name, and... it was never... official. It couldn't be. I was too young, and anyway..." She shrugged. "It wasn't my choice. Nothing was ever my choice until I chose to leave."

"That was a good choice," Clint said. "I think."

"It was," Jessica said. "This is better."

"Good," Natasha said.

"I just thought..." But Jessica shrugged, like she didn't know what she thought, or didn't know how to say it. Maybe she just realized she didn't need to. "Good night."

"Night," Clint said.

"Sleep well," Natasha said. 

Clint saw the faintest flicker of a grimace on her face, like she didn't think that was possible, and maybe it wasn't. But there wasn't anything they could do about that unless she asked them, which she didn't. She just left again, shutting the door behind her.

Natasha put down her brush and climbed into bed beside Clint, burrowing against him. They didn't talk about it, because what was there to say, really? But it was there in the darkness with them, pressing them both down like a weight, the knowledge that they weren't the only ones who had demons in human form, lurking out there waiting to strike if they got the chance.


	16. Chapter 16

"Has anyone seen Bruce?" Jessica asked, looking around like she might find him amongst the wood and power tools that the set crew was using to try to get the bigger set pieces done before Pepper had a heart attack. They couldn't be painted until they were built, and even Steve was starting to get antsy.

It wasn't Clint's fault that his crew was made up of a bunch flakes and incompetent freshman, and everything ended up having to be done twice. He tried to explain things, but he wasn't really much of a teacher when it came right down to it, and it was just easier to do it himself most of the time. 

"He should be up in the sound booth," Clint said. "Why?"

"Pepper's looking for him," Jessica said, but her eyes flicked sideways and Clint guessed it was a lie. Not that it mattered; if she was looking for Bruce, it wasn't any of his business, even if he couldn't figure out what reason she would have for trying to find their nerdy friend.

"Ask Tony," he suggested. 

"Right. Thanks." She headed back for the wings, presumably to go around instead of just jumping off the front of the stage like they usually did. But it looked like the pit was going to have a rehearsal there – why _there_? it was hard enough to hear without the extra noise – so probably better she didn't jump into the middle of it.

"Wait!" he called after her. She turned, looked at him expectantly. "Where's Carol?"

Jessica frowned. "I don't know," she said. "Probably just running late."

 _Again,_ Clint thought, but he didn't say that. Carol knew what she was doing, but wasn't reliable when it came to showing up, and that was almost a bigger problem than not knowing how to hammer in a nail without crushing one's own thumb. At least he could count on the freshman to be there.

"Thanks," he said, and let her go, turning his attention back to screwing the wheels onto the bottom of a movable cart that would allow them to switch out some of the bigger sets easily. 

He didn't notice one of the crew members until he tapped him on his shoulder, causing him to jerk and the drill to slip. "Damn it!" 

"Mr. Barton?" 

He looked up at the kid – not a freshman but he looked maybe 12, 90 pounds soaking wet with ears that stuck out and a face full of freckles, dedicated as hell and not even terrible, but lacking in any kind of confidence – and sighed. "Clint. It's just Clint. I'm not a teacher."

"Right, uh, Clint? I, um... think you probably should, uh, come here?"

"Sure," Clint said, although he really just wanted to be left alone so he could finish. "What is it?" He couldn't remember the kid's name. Rick or Rich or something like that, but he wouldn't have bet money on which one. 

"Just... over here." The boy led him into the wings, into one of the shadowy dark corners, and pointed. "I, um, I thought... probably... you should, uh, know?"

"Thanks," Clint said. "I'll take it from here. Can you go finish putting that last wheel on? Just drill straight in. Nothing to it."

"Oh, uh, um, sure?"

"Thanks."

Clint waited until he – Ben, his name was Ben, Rick or Rich was a different one, the annoying one who sounded like a wheezing donkey when he laughed, which was way too often – was gone, then approached the figure curled up in the corner.

"Carol?"

No answer. Her knees were drawn up to her chest, her arms wrapped around them and her head down. She didn't move, and he wondered if maybe she was sleeping. He reached out, nudged her gently, and she rocked with it, then righted herself, but slowly, not all at once like a body coming back into consciousness. 

"Carol, come on," Clint said. "What are you doing back here?"

"Leave me alone," Carol said. 

"Yeah, can't do that," Clint said. "One of the crew kids noticed you back here, so your secret hide-out has been discovered. You're going to need a new lair. Or better yet, you can come help get things done, because we're even further behind and if they're not done before Christmas I'm pretty sure Pepper will lose it on us."

"Not my problem," Carol said. 

Clint gritted his teeth, suppressed a sigh. "I guess not, but you signed up to be part of the crew, and I need your help. I can't do this myself, and you're better at teaching them how to do things than I am. Apparently directions like, 'Just do it,' aren't particularly useful."

It was true. She had a way of explaining things that really seemed to sink in and stick. When she taught someone how to do something, they didn't ask about it again. Clint wasn't patient enough.

"Look," Clint said, when she still didn't respond or even move. "I get it. You're having a shitty day. Maybe a shitty week or even a shitty year. I don't know. But sitting here in a corner isn't going to change any of that. Banging the shit out of something with a hammer might. You can pretend it's the face of whoever it is that's got you upset."

 _Or you can just suck it up,_ Clint thought, but that probably fell into the category of 'not very helpful advice' too. And it was kind of the same thing anyway, just a little more polite.

Carol finally lifted her head, looked at him, and he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed, her cheeks and nose flushed like she'd been crying... or maybe like she'd been drinking, in which case giving her power tools was probably a really bad idea, and he probably should have thought of that first, but as far as he knew, she didn't drink at school. That would just be stupid, after all, and Carol definitely wasn't that.

"Come on," he said, offering her a hand.

She just looked at it for a moment, then took it and let him pull her up. He kept hold of it maybe longer than was necessary, but it gave him the opportunity to get a little closer than either of them might have preferred, so he could get a whiff of her.

Nothing. Thankfully.

"I just need to run to the bathroom," she said. "Splash some water on my face."

"Sure," he said. "Don't get lost on your way back."

"I'll try not to," she said, with the hint of a smile. 

Clint went to check on Ben, who, miracle of miracles, had managed to get the last wheel on without messing anything up, so he helped him flip it over. "Now we start putting the flats on," he said. "Ready?"

"Uh... yes. Sir."

It was all he could do not to bang his head against the wood. "Clint's fine," he reminded him. "Come on, let's get this done."

When Carol came back, she was smiling, back to her normal self like nothing had happened. Clint wondered if it was a woman thing, that they could just flip a switch and go into I'm Great, Everything's Fine, Why Would You Think It Wasn't? mode. Natasha could do it, and Jess could too. Now Carol. It was kind of eerie, really.

But she got to work, helping out some of the others with something that they'd been working on all afternoon that he'd been trying to ignore because he knew if he got involved there would probably be yelling. But Carol didn't yell; she just took charge and soon the whole thing was back on track with no indication at the fumbling that had been going on earlier, and no bickering over who had been right.

"You should be stage manager," he told her as she walked past. "You'd be better at it than me."

"Probably," she said with a grin. "But Pepper gave the job to you, and far be it from me to question the wisdom of Her Majesty The Student Director."

"I hope you don't call her that to her face," Clint laughed.

Carol's eyes opened wide. "Do I look crazy to you?" 

As if the conversation had summoned her (and Clint really, _really_ hoped she hadn't overheard), Pepper came over, clipboard clenched in her hand, the bottom edge pressed into her hip, and asked, "Has anyone seen Bruce?"

So maybe Jess _had_ been on an errand for Pepper after all. "No," Clint said. "He's not in the sound booth?"

"No," Pepper said, in a tone that implied that Clint was obviously an idiot for even asking the question, because obviously she'd checked there first, and everywhere else she could think of, before asking anyone else for help with the situation. 

Which, okay, maybe was true because that was how she worked and Clint knew it.

"I haven't seen him," Clint said. "Sorry."

Tony came trotting down the aisle. "He had to go to an appointment," he said. "It had to be rescheduled at the last minute, and the only time they could fit him in was today. I was supposed to tell you. I'm sorry."

Pepper sighed. "He was supposed to—"

"He said he's really sorry and he'll have it done by the end of the week," Tony said. "He would rather be here, I swear. He swears. It just wasn't something that he could get out of, and he'll have everything ready before break. Don't worry about it."

Pepper pursed her lips, looking like she had bitten into a lemon but probably she was just fighting back the urge to go off on Tony. Telling Pepper Potts not to worry about something was never a good move. She worried about everything. All the time. 

It was a wonder she didn't have an ulcer.

"All right," she said finally, glancing down at her clipboard. Clint figured she probably had a list of potential crises that she was checking off one by one as she averted them. Leaving a box unchecked would probably drive her insane. "I'll check back in with him on Friday."

"I'll let him know," Tony said. "Thanks, Pep."

"Don't call me Pep," she replied, and bustled off. 

Tony sighed. It was so deep and world-weary he seemed smaller afterward, and Clint was trying to figure out how to ask what was wrong, or if something was wrong, if there was anything he could do, but before he could form the words Tony had disappeared back into the back of the theater to fiddle with the lights some more.

"Hey," Steve said. "Is that about ready?"

"Huh?" Clint looked up at him. "Oh, right. Almost. We just..." He looked over at Ben and the other kid who'd been helping them – Julie, maybe Julia? Juliet? God he was bad at names – and saw that they'd put one of the flats backward. "We just need to put the finishing touches on," he said. "Ten minutes."

"You've got twenty," Steve said with a smile. Apparently the mistake hadn't escaped his notice.

"Thanks," Clint said, rubbing the bridge of his nose and then turning his attention back to his crew. "Okay, guys. So this is how you make the drill go in reverse..."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who might not have noticed, I've been posting bonus "deleted" scenes all week, mostly from the prompts that were given to me ages ago, so if you haven't already, check them out! 
> 
> Also, if people have new scenes they would like to see (stuff that doesn't show up on screen because everything is filtered through Clint's POV) let me know and I'll see what I can do! 
> 
> BTW, Everything related to Ghosts That We Knew/Time for a Sign can be found [here on the series page](http://archiveofourown.org/series/50966). (It also gives you the option of subscribing to the series, so you'll be notified any time I post anything linked to the series.)


	17. Chapter 17

Rather than having them come in for one day, their last day of class was on Friday, and they didn't have to go back to school until January 2nd. They got together that Saturday at Tony's house to decorate the Christmas tree (and a quick call to a fancy cupcake bakery later, to celebrate Jessica's birthday, which she'd conveniently neglected to mention, sparking a mini tirade from Tony much like the one he'd gone on on Clint's birthday) and after a lot of back-and-forth and trying to coordinate everyone's schedules and obligations, the group had finally decided that they would get together for their celebration in the afternoon on Christmas day. They figured that gave everyone plenty of time with their families (not that most of them _wanted_ to spend the time with their families...) but still gave them all an escape.

Clint agreed to it, hoping like hell he'd be able to get it past the Sullivans. After Thanksgiving, they'd agreed to make allowances for the fact that his idea of family was different than theirs, and that spending time with his friends around the holidays was important to him. Agreed in theory, anyway. In practice...

On Monday he tried to be extra helpful around the house, doing things without being asked, not telling the younger boys off no matter how annoying they were (and they seemed to be going out of their way to be annoying). At one point Mrs. Sullivan told them that if they didn't shape up, Santa wouldn't come, but only Connor hesitated, and then only for a minute. The other boys were too old for Santa. Clint tried to remember, but he didn't think he'd ever believed. Christmas had been a few strings of lights and a few extra drinks for his father. It hadn't meant much of anything to him or Barney.

Finally he bundled up and went outside, where Mr. Sullivan was trying to hang up a few decorations. Clint went to the ladder and held the bottom, steadying it. Mr. Sullivan looked down. "Thanks," he said. "I should have done this sooner, but I just couldn't find the time."

 _Why bother?_ , Clint wanted to ask, but he didn't. "Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Just do what you're doing for now," Mr. Sullivan replied. "I think I've nearly got it."

So Clint stayed at the bottom of the ladder and let his foster father work, stepping out of the way only when he came down. He plugged them in, and thankfully the strand lit up, casting tiny pools of colorful light against the snow that lingered from the storm a week before.

"There," Mr. Sullivan said. "I think that's as good as it's going to get."

"Looks good," Clint said. 

Mr. Sullivan looked at him, smiled, shook his head. "So what can I help _you_ with?" he asked.

Clint sighed. He should have figured he was being too transparent. Subtlety wasn't exactly his strong point, unless he really needed it to be. "Just... you guys said that I could spend time around the holidays with my friends," he said. 

"We did," Mr. Sullivan said. "I assume because you're asking it means you've got something in mind."

"We decided... we figured everyone would be pretty much done with everything by early afternoon on Christmas, right? So we're going to – we want to – get together in the afternoon. 'Cause the kids are going to be up early opening presents, and by afternoon..."

"We'll have to talk to Mrs. Sullivan," he replied, "but I don't think there will be a problem with that. The big gathering for my side of the family is on Christmas Eve this year, and we saw her family on Thanksgiving. Traveling for both holidays is such a hassle, so we try to switch off. Why don't we wait until after dinner, and then we can figure things out?"

"Okay," Clint said, agreeing easily because it sounded like Mr. Sullivan was actually going to be on his side, and maybe this wouldn't turn into some kind of battle like he more than half expected.

He continued his campaign of goodness right through the dinner dishes, and by the time they were done, Mrs. Sullivan was looking at him suspiciously. Clint might have been offended by it – couldn't a guy just do something nice? – but since he _did_ have an ulterior motive, he didn't figure he had much right to get upset.

"All right," she said as he tossed the dirty dish towel into the kitchen laundry basket, "what's going on?"

"Nothing," Clint said. "I just wanted to figure out what's happening for Christmas."

"Right," Mrs. Sullivan said, her suspicion deepening. "We've already discussed the fact that you are not going to be exempt from all—"

"I know," Clint said, the words coming out sharp, irritated. "I know," he repeated, forcing his voice back to a normal pitch. "That's not what I'm saying. Mr. Sullivan said that his family thing is on Christmas Eve, and I figured we'd do the Christmas thing here in the morning, right?"

"Right..."

"So we were all planning to get together that afternoon," Clint said. "On Christmas. We figured that was the best time, because most people have already done what they need to by then."

Mrs. Sullivan frowned, clearly thinking the proposal over, trying to find fault. "I wasn't planning on doing anything in the afternoon," she said. "Pasta of some kind for dinner, but nothing elaborate. I guess I don't see a problem with it."

"Good," Clint said, not adding that he'd been planning to do it whether she had a problem with it or not.

"But you have to come to the family gathering on Christmas Eve," she said. "That's part of the agreement."

"I know," Clint told her, his voice going a little sharp again. Why did she have to turn everything into a fight? Why did she always assume the worst of him? But she probably assumed because in the past, everything was kind of a battle, and he maybe hadn't always been at his best. 

And he didn't want to go. She wasn't wrong there. He didn't want anything to do with her family, or Mr. Sullivan's, or even Christmas morning here with the boys. It wasn't his thing. He would rather be with his friends. He would rather be with—

"Actually..."

Both of his foster parents looked at him expectantly, Mr. Sullivan looking a little worried and Mrs. Sullivan so tense he could see that she was gritting her teeth. "What?" she asked. "What now?"

Clint took a deep breath, let it out slowly so he wouldn't snap back. If he wanted a chance at this whole thing being even remotely tolerable, he had to keep it together, sell them on the fact that this was a good idea, really. "Can Natasha come?"

He looked at Mr. Sullivan more than Mrs. Sullivan when he asked, figuring if he was going to get any support it would be from him. 

"Clinton, it's a _family_ gathering," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I know that you think that—"

Mr. Sullivan touched her shoulder and she stopped, looked at him, frowned. "I don't see the harm in it," he said. "The more the merrier."

"I really don't think it's appropriate," Mrs. Sullivan said. "That wasn't part of our agreement."

"It wasn't," Mr. Sullivan agreed, "but you know as well as I do that there's not really going to be anyone Clint's age there, and once the small talk is over with, he's going to be bored out of his mind. Let him have a friend there. 

Mrs. Sullivan wasn't so easily swayed. "But you can't just hide yourselves in a corner and avoid everything. If she comes with you, you're still going to have to at least make a token effort at interacting with other people." 

"We will," Clint said. "She's better at the whole social thing than I am, anyway," he said. Which maybe wasn't exactly 100% true, but at least when she was around he was more likely to try. And then he thought of something that might just get Mrs. Sullivan to give in once and for all. "With her there, it'll be easier," he said. He tapped his ear. "Parties are hard; too many people talking all at once. If she's there, she can always interpret so that I can actually, y'know, communicate."

Mrs. Sullivan pursed her lips, but finally nodded. "All right. Fine. But I expect the two of you to be on your best behavior."

"Anyway," Mr. Sullivan said, "she's practically family. You two have been together, what? Almost a year now?"

"Almost," Clint said. He hadn't realized that his foster father had been keeping track. "Thank you."

He went upstairs to tell Natasha, hoping that she hadn't already had Christmas Eve plans. When he told her the bargain he'd made, she rolled her eyes (video chat was an amazing thing) but he got the feeling that maybe she was a little bit happy about it. Not that she was going to get dragged to someone else's family gathering, but that he'd wanted her there. 

_Is Mr. Fury going to mind?_ , he asked belatedly.

 _I don't think so,_ she said. _I don't think we have any big plans. Although... do you think I should bring something?_

_Bring something?_

_To the party. As a thank you gift to the hosts._

_I don't think anyone expects you to,_ Clint told her, frowning. _Why?_

The corner of her mouth quirked up. _Because Jessica has been baking more cookies than we could ever eat, and it would be nice to get rid of some._

 _Are they edible?_ , Clint asked, knowing that Jessica's culinary skills were frequently dubious at best.

_As far as I can tell. Why? You don't want to be the boy who brought food poisoning to the party?_

_And have Mrs. Sullivan kill me? No thanks. Here I thought you liked me._

_You thought wrong,_ Natasha teased.

_Yeah, well, I love you too._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So... when I started writing the holidays for the kids, things got a bit out of hand, and I ended up with so many words that if I posted on a weekly basis, it would be Christmas for months. Obviously, I didn't want that to happen, so instead, you'll be getting posts all week. Yes, that's right. Every day, all week, starting today and ending next Sunday. Consider it my gift to you. 
> 
> Happy Holidays!


	18. Chapter 18

On Christmas Eve, Mr. Fury dropped Natasha off at Clint's. Connor and Kevin beat him to the door, so she was greeted by giggles and kissing noises and Kevin shouting up at him (even though he was already halfway down the stairs), "Clint _on_ your _girl_ friend is here!"

"Yeah, yeah," Clint said, nudging them aside so that Natasha could step in. He shut the door behind her and couldn't quite manage to not look her up and down as she unbuttoned her coat. She was wearing a black dress, with a red scarf, or maybe it was a shawl, wrapped around her shoulders. High heels brought her up so they were almost eye to eye, and he wasn't sure how she could walk in those things.

_You look beautiful,_ he told her, the signs small like he was whispering. 

She smiled, and reached out to brush a piece of lint from his shoulder. _You don't look half bad yourself._

He was wearing a pair of black dress pants that the Sullivans had gotten for him for special occasions, which he'd never worn before but had put on without being told, wanting to avoid any possible sense of conflict, and a dark gray sweater with a purple button-down shirt underneath. He'd drawn the line at a tie, and they hadn't said anything. Mrs. Sullivan had wrinkled her nose a little at his boots, which he'd tried to shine up a bit, but they were too scuffed to make look anything other than well-loved. Considering there was no chance in the world that she was going to convince Connor to wear anything but sneakers, he figured she'd decided it wasn't a battle worth having. 

_I'm sorry I'm dragging you to this,_ he said. _I'm sure you have better things to do._

_Food Network marathon and more Christmas cookies?_ Natasha's eyebrows went up. _Not really. We're running out of places to store them._

_If she brings them to Tony's tomorrow, I'm sure they'll get eaten._

_I'm sure they will,_ Natasha agreed. 

Mrs. Sullivan came into the hall, and stopped when she saw them. "Ah, good," she said. "Natasha, you look wonderful."

"Thank you," Natasha said. "Is anything I can do to help?"

"No, no. Just don't disappear, the pair of you. We're almost ready to go." She turned and went back into the kitchen to grab whatever (or whoever) she'd forgotten. 

_Suck-up,_ Clint teased.

_One of us has to,_ Natasha teased back.

A few minutes later, they were hustled out the door and into the minivan, which just barely held the group of them. Mr. Sullivan got behind the wheel while Mrs. Sullivan tried to find a CD that everyone would listen to without complaining, since the boys hadn't been allowed to bring their electronics with them. (Sometimes Clint was sure that Mrs. Sullivan was some kind of masochist. It was like she went out of her way to find ways to make her own life more difficult. But she was convinced that the boys needed to learn how to behave in social situations without relying on what were, in essence, pacifiers. Clint wasn't sure that a big family gathering, which was overwhelming even for normal people, was really the time to take that kind of stand, but what did he know?)

Unfortunately, it didn't really work, and the nearly forty minute drive was spent with Devon complaining, Kevin making up rude alternate lyrics, and Connor alternately laughing like a hyena and whining to Mrs. Sullivan that Kevin had said a bad word. By the time they arrived, Clint was more than happy to get out of the car.

He offered his hand to Natasha, who took it, not even wobbling as she stepped onto the gravel path. _She could have been a tight rope walker,_ Clint thought as she tucked her hand into the crook of his elbow.

They were met at the front door by Mr. Sullivan's parents, who welcomed them warmly. "Clint!" Mom Sullivan said, holding out her arms like she was looking for a hug, but not following through on it. "It's nice to finally meet you! We've heard so much about you. And this must be..." She pursed her lips, then laughed. "I'm sorry, dear, I've forgotten your name."

"Natasha," she said, and repeated it when the older woman's expression started to slip into a frown of incomprehension.

"I'm so sorry, Natasha. I'm going a bit deaf, I'm afraid, and there's so much noise."

"It's all right," Natasha said. "I'm used to deaf." She looked up at Clint, smirking, and he pinched her arm lightly through her coat. 

"Thank you so much for joining us. I hope we're not taking you away from your own family."

"No," Natasha said. "We will celebrate tomorrow."

"Good, good. Well, the two of you make yourselves at home. There's plenty of food; help yourselves. Merry Christmas!"

_Well that wasn't horrible,_ Clint said. And it hadn't been. He'd expected a lot worse. But then, these were Mr. Sullivan's parents, not Mrs. Sullivan's, and maybe they were the reason that he was a little more laid back. He didn't think he would ever want to meet his foster mother's parents; not if the saying was true and the apple didn't fall far from the tree.

The found food, and then went in search of somewhere to sit with it, but found it very difficult to get from one room to the next with anything resembling speed. Their faces were unfamiliar, so everyone wanted to know who they were, with different variations on a theme.

For Clint, there was, "Oh, you're one of Grant's kids!" (Grant being Mr. Sullivan.) And then an expectant look like they wanted him to spill all of the sordid details of how he'd come to end up in the Sullivans' care. Which didn't happen, and they usually gave up when follow-up questions like how long he'd been staying with them and what grade was he in got the shortest answers he could manage to give.

For Natasha it was usually, "Oh, where are you from?" which was sometimes followed by, "Say something in Russian!" (as if her accent was enough, and she had to prove her Russian street cred or something), which she did, and although Clint didn't understand it, he was 105% sure that the translations she gave for what she'd said were not in any way accurate.

With the noise in the room, there were times where Clint couldn't hear, and Natasha would end up interpreting for him, which of course generated its own series of questions about what was that and how had they learned and was it the same in Russia, etc.

The best, though, was when a middle-aged man looked at her, his eyes wide, and said, "Wow! You speak really good English!"

Natasha smiled as sweetly as she could and told him, " _You_ speak really good English. _I_ speak English _well_." 

The man's jaw dropped, and he looked ready to say something but then apparently decided against it, instead opting to simply walk away. 

When Clint saw that Mr. Sullivan had overheard, he was afraid that they would both be in trouble, but Mr. Sullivan had just leaned in to them a little and said, his voice low, "Don't worry about him. He's kind of an ass, but since he's related we have to keep inviting him," then winked and walked away.

An hour passed, then two, and Clint started wishing that Connor would have a meltdown or something so that they could get out of there. His phone started buzzing in his pocket and he pulled it out, glad of the distraction after another stilted round of small talk. The screen said it was Tony calling. He glanced around to make sure that Mrs. Sullivan wasn't in the vicinity, then answered it.

And quickly realized that it was no good. He couldn't hear Tony over the noise of the party, especially since he sounded like he'd just run a marathon, and his words were still sprinting. He gave up and handed the phone to Natasha. "It's Tony."

She took it, pressed it to her ear. "Tony, is Natasha." Her forehead furrowed. "Wait," she said. "Slow down."

And then she was silent for a long moment before looking at Clint, wide-eyed, and signed, _Bruce. Hospital. Need to go **now**._

"We will be there as soon as we can," she told Tony. "Call Steve."

"How the hell—" Clint started, but stopped when Mrs. Sullivan approached.

"There you two... what's happened? You look as if you've seen a ghost."

"Tony – our friend Tony – just called and told us that Bruce – our friend Bruce – is in the hospital," Clint said. "He's... we don't know what happened, but it's bad. Tony told us we need to go there now. Like... like maybe there won't be a chance later."

At least that's what he was guessing based on the limited information he'd gotten, and Natasha didn't contradict him. 

"Was he in—" Mrs. Sullivan stopped herself. "Go get your coats. I'll go talk to your father, get him to watch the boys. I'll take you there, drop you off, and come back."

Clint's jaw dropped. Who was this and what had she done with Mrs. Sullivan? There was no way...

Natasha tugged on his arm, dragging him to the room where the coats were piled on a bed, and dug out theirs along with Mrs. Sullivan's. They found her waiting in the front hall, looking... determined, maybe. And worried. "Thank you," she said, taking her coat. "Let's go."

It was a long, quiet drive to the hospital, the only sound the tinny cheer coming from the stereo speakers. Clint's hand found Natasha's in the dark and held on. When they arrived at the hospital entrance, Mrs. Sullivan turned around and looked at them. "Call me when you're ready to be picked up," she said.

"Thank you," Clint said. 

"Of course," she replied. "I hope he's all right."

_Me too,_ Clint thought, but he couldn't quite get the words out, so he just nodded and shut the door, watching the tail lights disappear before turning to face whatever was on the other side of the emergency room doors.


	19. Chapter 19

The emergency room was filled with people in various states of disaster. There were people clutching tissues and coughing so hard it sounded like pieces of their lungs might dislodge and come up, and people with ice packs and towels pressed to various cuts and scrapes. Clint assumed they must not be life-threatening or they would have been seen by now. 

They found Tony in a corner, pacing and tapping furiously at his phone. Steve was slumped in a seat nearby, and when he saw them he glanced at Tony and shook his head, then pushed himself up to greet them. 

"What's going on?" Clint asked. "He wasn't exactly..." His eyes flicked to Tony, who was muttering at the device in his hand – cursing it, maybe, or possibly giving it some kind of voice command.

"He's still not," Steve said. "From what I gathered, Bruce is... well, he's not doing well. At all."

"Was he in accident?" Natasha asked. "Is he hurt?"

"No," Steve said. "No... not that." He frowned, his forehead furrowing and his eyebrows knitting together. "I think... it sounds like..." He sighed. "It sounds like from what Tony said, he might have... taken something. Too much of something."

Clint felt as if the air had been sucked out of his lungs, and he wasn't sure if he lurched forward or Natasha stepped backward, but they collided, and his arms went around her protectively as they both heard what Steve wasn't saying: that Bruce had probably done it on purpose. That he'd tried to kill himself.

"Oh," he said, but he wasn't sure they heard, because his lips were pressed against Natasha's hair. He could feel her fingers digging into his sleeve.

"What do we do?" Natasha asked.

"I don't know," Steve replied, running his hand through his hair. It was starting to stick up; clearly it wasn't the first time he'd done it. "We wait, I guess."

"Do the others know?" Natasha asked. "Thor? Loki?"

"I'll see if I can reach Thor," Steve said, and pulled his cell phone from his pocket, taking a few steps away to a slightly quieter area of the room.

"Should we try to...?" Clint looked at Tony again. He wasn't sure what any of them could do at this point, but he was worried that his agitation would start to bother other people. 

"He is okay for now, I think," Natasha said. "I think will be worse to try and stop him than to let him go unless he makes trouble."

"All right," Clint said, but he knew they would have to keep a close eye on their friend to make sure that he didn't start to cause a disturbance. Already he could see some of the people nearby eying him warily. They probably thought he was crazy.

Then again, he probably was.

Steve sat back down and sighed. "I told Thor. He says he'll get here as soon as he can, but it might take a little while." His shoulders slumped and he rubbed his hands on his knees. "I don't..." But he didn't finish the sentence, and they didn't ask.

Every time the emergency room doors opened, a blast of cold air hit them, and Clint felt Natasha press a little closer to his side. He finally took off his jacket and draped it over her legs, which were only protected by a thin pair of tights, after all. _You don't—_ , she started, but he shook his head.

_It's all right,_ he told her. _My sweater is warm._

After a while Tony went up to the reception area and came back a few minutes later looking furious. "They won't tell me anything," he said. "They say that they can't release any information except to immediate family! But he doesn't _have_ any immediate family! Not here, anyway, and—"

His voice was rising, drawing attention, and Steve looked around nervously. "Tony," he said. "Tony, it's—" He stopped himself before saying 'all right' (or at least that's what Clint assumed he'd been about to say) because obviously the whole situation as anything but all right. "I'll try to talk to them, okay? Just try to... try to take it easy."

Tony looked ready to blow, all of the pent-up energy that was always so close to the surface crackling around him like an aura, and he looked ready to aim it all at Steve. But Steve wasn't having any of it; small and wheezy he might be, but there was something in him that was rock solid in times of crisis, and if anything qualified, this did. "It's not going to do Bruce any good for you to get kicked out of here," he told Tony. "You need to keep it together. I'll see what I can do."

Clint wasn't sure what Steve said or who he called or what happened – the idea that maybe he'd flirted with one of the nurses to win her over made him giggle, which earned him a raised eyebrow from Natasha, but she didn't ask – but he came back over a little while later and said, "He's stable. It's... it's still bad, but he's stable. They're going to move him soon. They said they'll tell us when."

"What if they're lying?" Tony asked. 

"They're not lying," Steve said. 

And they weren't. It was almost an hour later, but finally one of the nurses came over to let them know that Bruce was being moved upstairs for observation, and no, they couldn't see him, but they were welcome to wait in the lounge up there where it was quieter. 

"There might be others," Steve said. "Can you...?"

"Since he's being admitted, they can ask at the desk and find out where he is," the nurse reassured them.

"Wait," Tony said. "So... _anyone_ can just walk in and ask and be told where to find him?"

The nurse frowned slightly. "Well, yes."

"Even though he's a minor?" Tony asked.

"Well..." the nurse said, suddenly uncertain. "He's not going to be admitted to pediatrics, and we don't generally—"

"No," Tony said. "No. You have to make a list of some kind of the people who are allowed to know where he is. His father might decide to show up, and he's the whole problem. You can't let him find out that he's here."

The nurse looked surprised, but she nodded. "All right. Come over here and we'll get something set up."

Clint was honestly surprised that it was that easy, but hell, maybe the nurse knew who Tony was and knew that it would be in her best interests to cooperate. Money talked, after all, and the Starks had plenty of that, and tended to be generous when it came to charitable donations (or at least that's what Tony said). 

Finally they piled into an elevator and made their way to a smaller but quieter (and less plague-ridden) waiting room. It also had the advantage of not being near a door that kept opening and closing every few minutes, so it was somewhat warmer. Even so, Natasha shivered, but Clint wasn't sure it was entirely from cold.

They turned on the TV to have something to stare at, background noise to drown out their thoughts, although Clint doubted it worked for anyone else any better than it did for him. Thor arrived with Loki in tow, still dressed in their holiday best, and Thor's voice as he asked what was happening was too loud. Loki slumped into a chair and grabbed the remote, flipping through the channels without bothering to ask if anyone had actually been watching what was on. No one argued.

A little before midnight Clint's phone rang. It was Mrs. Sullivan, looking for an update. "He's stable," Clint said. "That's all we know. We haven't been able to see him."

"Was he in an accident?" she asked. 

"It was some kind of... drug interaction thing," Clint lied, because he didn't need her jumping down his throat about the kind of people he kept company with. "It was... _is_ pretty bad. It's still..." He couldn't continue; his throat choked itself off and all he could manage to do was cough.

"I'm sure that he'll be fine," Mrs. Sullivan said. "The doctors know how to take care of those sorts of things. If he's stable, that's a good sign." She paused, then asked, "Do you want me to come pick you up, or are you going to stay?"

"Stay," Clint said. "We're going to stay."

"All right," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Call me when you know more, or if there's anything that you need. He's in my prayers."

"Thanks," Clint said, and hung up, burying his face against Natasha's shoulder until he managed to blink back his tears. She reached up and stroked the hair at the back of his neck, whispering to him but he couldn't understand the words; he thought maybe they were in Russian and he wasn't meant to. 

"I should probably call Mr. Fury," she said after a few minutes, handing him a tissue. 

The conversation was quick, and he didn't really pay attention to it. When she hung up she sank back against him and sighed. _Jessica is coming, and she's calling Carol,_ she signed. _She's bringing me clothes to change into._ She looked at him a bit apologetically. _I should have asked her to bring something for you._

_It's all right,_ Clint reassured her. _I'm fine._

_Okay,_ she replied, although she didn't look like she believed it. But what he was wearing was the least of his worries right now. 

Jessica arrived, bringing clothing for Natasha as promised, along with a lot of cookies. Natasha went and changed and came back, and Carol arrived not long after. 

With all of them there, the waiting room was pretty full, but it didn't matter since there was no one else around. They all sat in their own silence, until finally Carol asked, "Okay... so... what happened?"

Which none of them had really dared to ask, or at least not that Clint knew of. They all looked at Tony expectantly, since he'd been the one to originally summon them here. For a minute, Clint wasn't sure he'd heard, but finally he looked up from the screen of his phone. "He was supposed to come over," he said. "He didn't show up. Again."

Which seemed like it had become a habit with him, and now Clint wondered why they hadn't tried to figure out why. Why they'd left it alone when obviously something was right. But... that was how they did things, wasn't it? Ignored them and hoped they would go away? Or... they didn't ask questions, at least. They didn't pry. They didn't want to butt into anyone else's business, make waves, cause trouble, and look where it had led them.

"So I went to find him," Tony continued. "I went to see what was going on, if maybe... I thought maybe his father was just being an asshole, refusing to drive him or refusing to let him go. He doesn't have his own car, and... well, we were kind of counting on his dad passing out early so he could take it, drive over, and then we would..." He shook his head. "I don't know. It doesn't matter. I went to find him and the car was gone and I thought maybe he was on his way, so I called him, but he didn't answer. I was about to leave, but I noticed a light on in Bruce's room, so I knocked, but he didn't answer, and finally I just tried the door. It wasn't locked, so I went in and... found him."

"Found him?" Carol asked.

"Passed out on the bathroom floor," Tony said. "He'd taken... I don't know what he'd taken. A lot of stuff. I called the ambulance and... now we're here." He seemed to deflate, but then he straightened up again. "And he'd better wake up soon, because when he does, I'm going to kill him." 

Loki snorted, but they all ignored him. 

"Because it's complete bullshit," Tony said. "You can't just do that. You can't just decide that you want to end it all. You don't get to do that. It's stupid, and selfish, and there's nothing - _nothing_ \- that can be that bad that you just want to end it all. _Nothing._ "

Silence settled over the group and it seemed to stretch for an eternity, but it was probably only a minute, maybe not even that long.

"It is easy for you to say this," Natasha said softly. "It is easy for you, who has everything, to say there is nothing so bad that death seems like only answer. Easy for you to get angry, because you do not understand." 

"Natasha," Clint whispered, and she glanced at him, shook her head slightly. 

"You are lucky," she continued. "I wish all of you are so lucky that you cannot understand why he would do this. I wish all of you are so lucky you do not _ever_ understand that there are places that you can go, places you can be taken, that are so dark, where you are so lost, that you cannot see any other way. But that does not mean that they do not exist."

Tony glared at her. "Who are you to tell me that I'm lucky?" he demanded. 

"Guys," Steve said, trying to placate them, to stop the argument, but it was no good, and maybe, Clint thought, it needed to be had.

"Who are you to say that I have everything? I lost my mother, and my father doesn't give a shit about me and would rather just send me off somewhere but I refuse to go, and—"

"You lost your mother, yes," Natasha said, her voice still low, almost cold, but it wasn't because she didn't feel. It wasn't because she didn't care. It was exactly the opposite, Clint knew, and he wanted to reach out and touch her, to give her warmth, because that was where this was going, back to that night, and he didn't want to remember. "You do not have as much of your father as you want. This is sad, yes, but this is not everything. You still have money, you still have your things to build, you still have your mind. You still have friends. And yes—" she held up her hand to stop Tony from protesting, "—Bruce also has friends. But sometimes... sometimes you cannot see these things you still have. Sometimes it is too dark to see anything but the moment you are in, the moment you think will never end, and it consumes you and you cannot think of how you are getting out except to end everything."

"How do you know?" Tony demanded. "You don't know what it's like to be him. You don't know what he's going through."

"No," Natasha agreed. "This I do not know." She looked down, took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then looked up again, right at Tony, pinning them with her eyes. "But I know what it is like to want to die."

Silence, and everyone stared at her. Everyone except Clint. "You don't have to—" he started to say, but again, she shook her head. 

"It is possible to lose, or think you have lost, everything," Natasha said. "It is possible even to lose yourself, and then... then what is point of living? If even your body, even your life is not your own... why? Why keep going?" 

She looked down now, and although her back was straight, her posture stiff, she seemed somehow smaller, fragile, and although some of them were still looking, most of the group had looked away now, staring at the walls or the floor or their hands, uncomfortable in the moment, knowing they were being shown a part of Natasha that she didn't usually show. Fully clothed, she stripped herself bare. 

"But... for me, was different. I did not decide, 'I am going to kill myself.' I just think, 'I do not care if I live anymore.' So I go outside at night, in winter. No jacket, no gloves. Nothing. I just go out and decide I will not go back."

"What made you change your mind?" Steve asked, when it became clear she wasn't going to continue. 

Natasha smiled, just the barest hint, as she looked at Clint. "I did not change my mind exactly," she said. "I lose a fight." She reached out, took his hand, laced their fingers together and held on. "I go to a place that only Clint knows. I do not tell him that I am going there. I do not ask him to come. I think he does not want to see me ever again. I think I am safe there. But... I guess maybe he is not ready to give up, and somehow he knows, and he comes. He wraps me in his jacket, tries to make me warm, and I fight him. I fight him with all of my strength, because I am tired of everything, my whole life is mess and there is no escape, I think. I fight him... see?" She touched Clint's cheek, turned his head to show the scar along his jaw from where she'd raked him with her nails, faint but still there, a permanent reminder of one of the worst nights of his life. 

"But he wants to me to live, and he will not let me go. And then I am too tired to fight anymore, so I give in to life instead of death. I cannot do it alone anymore, so I let him in... and we find another way." She looked at all of them, shrugged. "This is what we will do for Bruce, when he wakes up."

" _If_ he wakes up," Loki said blandly.

" _When_ ," several people insisted, Steve and Thor among them... but not Tony. Tony was silent, staring at the screen of his phone. Not touching it, not tapping out some kind of an S-O-S, just staring.

Natasha stood up, pulling Clint after her, and led him down the hall, away from everyone else, until finally she just stopped and looked up at him. And that was all it took. She looked at him, and he looked at her, and both of them started to cry. They hadn't that night... was it really almost a year ago now? They'd been too tired. But now they did, for who they'd been then and and who they might have been instead of who they were now if things had gone differently, for Bruce and Tony and the rest of their friends and all of the pain that all of them carried. 

They cried, and they clung, and they kissed each other's tears away and tasted salt on each other's lips and wished they could be anywhere else, but they weren't going to leave when a friend's life still hung in the balance.

Eventually the tears dried up, and Clint followed Natasha into the women's bathroom to clean himself up (there was no one around to object) and then back to the waiting room, where no one asked where they'd gone. They settled onto the small couch, curled together so that they almost weren't two separate people anymore, and tried not to think about what the news would be when... if... it ever came.


	20. Chapter 20

Clint woke because Natasha stirred and shoved his phone in his face, signing, _Not-Mom_ at him before shifting onto her side and wrapping her arms around the arm that didn't hold the phone, holding it to her chest like it was a teddy bear.

He hadn't even felt his phone buzzing in his pocket, but then he realized he couldn't really feel his leg at all, as circulation had been cut off by Natasha's shoulder or elbow or ribcage or hip digging into his thigh. It wasn't going to be fun when it woke up.

He didn't remember falling asleep, but apparently he had, and so had Natasha. Someone else had covered them with a blanket at some point. 

He glanced at the screen to confirm that yes, it was Mrs. Sullivan (they knew the sign for 'foster' now, but Not-Mom had basically become her name sign a long time ago), and he almost didn't answer it. She'd been... well, she'd actually been really good about everything that happened the night before, but then he hadn't called and now it was Christmas morning and she was probably going to yell at him, and he wasn't ready to deal with that.

But it would be worse if he didn't answer, so he finally tapped the screen. "Hello?" His voice was rough, his mouth dry and his tongue felt swollen and sticky. 

"Hello," she said. "I'm sorry to call so early, but I wanted to check in and see how things were, see if you were ready to come home or what was going on."

Clint blinked. Not, 'You need to come home now,' or 'Why didn't you call?' or anything else he expected. Apparently the spirit of Christmas had taken over her brain and turned her into someone else. It was... well, he was pretty sure it wouldn't last, but for the moment, it was nice.

"No updates," he said. "We're still waiting." He was starting to think that they'd all gotten lost in the shuffle of the shift changeover, and now there were probably doctors and nurses walking past wondering who this bunch of misfits in a mixture of party clothes and pajamas was, and what they were doing sprawled all over the waiting room. 

Mrs. Sullivan paused, then said, "In this case, I'd like to believe that no news is good news. Certainly if his condition had changed for the worse, you would have been told. Are his parents there?"

"Um." Clint glanced around, looking for faces he didn't recognize, but if any of Bruce's family was here, they would probably be taken directly to him, not made to wait with the rest of the rabble. "I don't know? His mother is dead, his father... isn't around." They hoped. "His grandparents were called... probably they're with him. We're not allowed yet."

"Who else is there?" she asked. 

He glanced around. "Me and Natasha," he said, brushing his cheek against her hair. "Steve," curled up in a chair with his coat for a pillow. "Thor and Loki," the former with his legs stuck out in front of him so far anyone trying to get past was likely to trip, his mouth hanging open, snoring quietly, the latter with his chin on his chest and his hands gripping the armrests like he'd fought sleep 'til the bitter end and lost. "Carol and Jess." Jessica was slumped against the arm of the couch, her knees drawn up, and Carol was using her hip as a pillow and their jackets as blankets. "And Tony and Pepper." When had _she_ arrived? They were awake, watching something on what Clint at first thought was Pepper's clipboard, because he was so used to seeing her with it, but realized was actually a tablet of some kind. Tony's head was on Pepper's shoulder, and she was stroking his temple as he stared glazedly at the screen. She glanced up and saw Clint looking at them, forced a small smile and shrugged her free shoulder. 

"It's good that you all have each other," she said. "Keep me posted, all right? I know it's important to you to be there, but once you have a better idea of what's going on, I hope you'll be able to get home for at least part of the day."

"Yeah, okay," Clint said. "I will."

"I'll talk to you soon."

"Yeah. Bye." Clint hung up, staring at the phone like it could answer his questions about his foster mother's suddenly... human behavior. But it didn't seem to have any more of a clue than he did. 

Natasha reached out and grabbed his other arm, wrapping it around her so that he was hugging her, whether he wanted to be or not. (He did. More than pretty much anything.) She said something in Russian, which of course she didn't understand, then wrinkled her nose. "What did she want?" she asked.

"Just to see how things were going," Clint said, kissing her ear. "Go back to sleep." 

"Not tired," she said, but yawned. They were all tired. They were all tired and drained, emotionally raw, with cricks in their necks and knots in muscles from tension and sleeping in awkward positions, and this was Christmas?

"Sleep anyway," he whispered. "Maybe when we wake up this will all be a dream."

"I am tired of waking into nightmares," she whispered back. He held her tighter. He knew exactly what she meant.

He couldn't make himself go back to sleep, no matter how hard he tried, and although her eyes were closed he was pretty sure Natasha wasn't asleep either. The pattern of her breathing was wrong; he knew the difference now, knew so many of the details of her – sleeping and awake – that he knew when something was off.

So he was awake when Mrs. Sullivan showed up with her arms full of bags and boxes. "Can you give me a hand?" she asked, keeping her voice low so as not to wake those who were still sleeping. "Oh, no, don't—"

But Natasha opened her eyes, showing that they didn't have to worry about waking her, and sat up. Together they helped Mrs. Sullivan put everything down, clearing away the ancient magazines from the small table to make room for the big box of coffee and the one of hot chocolate. They had spouts, and there were stacks of empty cups to go with them, along with muffins, donuts, bagels, cream cheese, and even some warm breakfast sandwiches. 

"I didn't know what everyone would want, but I figured there's something for everyone there. It didn't seem right that you wouldn't even get a decent breakfast on Christmas morning," Mrs. Sullivan said, surveying the spread critically. 

"It's... you didn't..." Clint didn't know what to say. "Thank you."

And he meant it, because he knew that the money for this had to have come out of her pocket, and the Sullivans weren't rich. They had enough; they didn't want for things, but there wasn't extra in the budget, especially around the holidays, and this had to have cost quite a bit. 

"Yes, thank you," Natasha said. "С Рождеством" She smiled, and if Clint could tell that it was forced, Mrs. Sullivan didn't seem to notice, or if she did she just took it to be because of the circumstances. 

The others started stirring as the smells of coffee and sugar began to permeate the small space that they occupied. They looked around, saw the food on the table, and their eyes widened. "Who...?"

"Guys," Clint said. "This is my foster mother, Mrs. Sullivan. She brought us all breakfast." There was a chorus of thank yous and Merry Christmases from the assembled group before they dug in, squabbling a little about who got what sandwich or whether there were enough Boston Creams to go around (there were) before silence descended. They were too polite to talk with their mouths full, after all. 

"What about the boys?" Clint asked quietly after swallowing. "They must be going crazy, having to wait on Christmas."

"They were allowed to open their stockings, and there's enough to keep them busy for a little while there," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I also promised them each a donut, which helped." She smiled a bit wryly. "I should get back, though, before they get too restless. Please, keep me posted."

"I will," Clint said. "Thank you. Again. This... is pretty f—darn amazing."

"You're welcome," she said. "Everyone enjoy!" she told them, and then left to go back home. 

"I can't believe she did that," Clint said, because it was impossible to sign with a donut in one hand and the other resting on Natasha's hip. 

Natasha shrugged. "Maybe finally you can have peace between you."

"Maybe," Clint said. "I owe her one, that's for sure. More than one. Probably at least a dozen." 

Natasha smirked and rolled her eyes like he'd made a joke that wasn't particularly funny, and it took him a minute to register the unintentional pun or whatever you'd call it. He rolled his eyes back at her, and she kissed him softly with sugary lips and for a minute he forgot that they were at the hospital because one of their friends might be dying or dead (and even if he wasn't either, he'd tried to make himself so) and just enjoyed the fact that it was Christmas and he got to spend it with the person he loved most in the world.

"We'll have to do something nice for your foster mother," Steve said. "This was really amazing of her."

"Yeah," Clint said, although he had no idea what. He hadn't even gotten her a Christmas gift (in his defense, they'd told him that he didn't have to) and now he felt kind of shitty about that. It would just have to be a belated holiday gift, he guessed.

"What time is it?" Loki finally asked, because there wasn't a clock anywhere in the room. It was probably intentional; people couldn't get upset about how long they'd been waiting if they couldn't actually see the passage of time. 

Phones were pulled from pockets, screens checked. "Quarter to seven," Pepper said. 

"How long are we going to sit here?" he asked. "It's not like we're doing Bruce any good by sitting around while he's unconscious."

"I'll go ask if there are any updates," Steve said, but came back a few minutes later with a report that one of the nurses would check with the doctor, and nothing else. "We just need to keep thinking positively," he said. 

"Have some more coffee," Thor said, handing his brother a cup.

Loki grumbled, but took it and sipped it slowly, holding it cupped between his palms. 

Finally a doctor came into the room, a woman who looked like an older version of Pepper, almost, but that might just have been the clipboard (or maybe it was a tablet) and the no-nonsense attitude. "I hear you guys have been here all night," she said. "Unfortunately, there hasn't been a lot to report. But your friend made it through the night, and tests are looking promising. He was being kept sedated, but they're going to be bringing him out of that soon. However, he's going to be groggy for a while, and we still have to run quite a few tests, so you're not going to be able to see him for a while."

She looked around at them, not smiling but not frowning either. Just serious... but also taking them seriously, and that was something. "What I would recommend is that you all go home. Enjoy Christmas morning with your families. Shower, change clothes, maybe grab a nap in an actual bed, and come back later in the day, maybe mid-afternoon. If everything goes well, he might be up for visitors – and cleared to have them – by then."

"What do you mean, cleared to have them?" Tony asked. "Of course—"

The doctor cut him off. "He attempted suicide. If, when he regains consciousness, he is still deemed to be a danger to himself or to others, he won't be allowed to have visitors. I'm sorry."

"But—" Tony said. 

"I'm sorry," she repeated. "I'm hoping that's not the case, as I'm sure you all are. But for now, like I said, go home, do what you need to do, and with any luck, you can see him this afternoon. All right?"

Silence, then, "Yes ma'am," from Steve, because he was better with authority than any of the rest of him, and also just generally more polite. 

"Merry Christmas, guys," she said, and walked away.

"I'm not leaving," Tony said.

"I am," Loki said. "If you want to stay, fine," he told his brother, but give me your keys."

Thor looked around. "Are we...?"

It was finally Jessica who spoke up. "He's right," she said. "We're not really doing Bruce any good sitting out here." She probably wasn't the only one thinking it – it had certainly crossed Clint's mind more than once – but she was the only one willing to actually admit that Loki, of all people, might have a point. "She said we can come back later, right? So... maybe that's what we should do."

"We can bring Christmas to him," Pepper said. "We were going to get together this afternoon anyway, so we've all cleared it with whoever we need to clear it with to leave the house. So instead of going to Tony's, we'll bring our gifts and everything here, and Bruce won't miss out."

"Good idea," Steve said, sounding a little relieved. 

"I'm not leaving," Tony insisted.

"Yes you are," Pepper said. "I'll drive you home, and I'll pick you up later. You need to change, and we need to get the party stuff from your house and bring it here. We'll have to call ahead, and see when he'll be out of his room for tests or something, so that we can get it decorated while he's not there. It can be a surprise."

Pepper kept talking, but Clint stopped listening. She would convince Tony somehow. She was good like that, and if there was anyone in the world that Tony would listen to, it was her. 

Clint looked at Natasha, frowning. _I don't want to,_ he signed. He didn't mean leave the hospital, though. He was okay with that... kind of eager to get out of there, if he was being honest. But he didn't want to leave _her_.

_It's only for a few hours,_ she said. _And we all owe Mrs. Sullivan._

_Still..._

_You'll be okay,_ she reassured him. _We'll be okay. A few hours._

_Okay,_ he agreed, but he didn't like it. Now felt like the wrong time to let her out of his sight, but he had to trust her. It would just be a long couple of hours.


	21. Chapter 21

They met up again at the hospital in the middle of the afternoon, just like they'd planned to meet at Tony's house. Apparently something in the universe was smiling on them, because Bruce was conscious and apparently had been deemed fit for human company, because they were allowed into his room while he was off being poked and prodded to decorate.

Pepper and Tony had brought a small tree in a pot, all decorated, but it was shifted aside when Carol showed up with her own tree – a Charlie Brown Christmas tree complete with a blue blanket wrapped around its base and a single ornament hanging from it. She'd made them all watch the special the previous weekend, because she insisted it was required holiday viewing, and Clint, Natasha, and Jessica had never seen it.

They all agreed that her tree probably better suited the spirit of the group than the fancy one did. They heaped their Secret Santa gifts beneath and around it, and then set out plates of food and cookies, which they offered to the doctors and nurses who stopped in to see what they were up to, since there was more than they could eat, and everyone was being good sports about all of this which Clint was pretty sure they didn't have to be.

Finally, Bruce was brought back to his room, slumped low in a wheelchair. The door inched open, and they all put on their happiest faces and yelled, "Surprise! Merry Christmas!" 

Bruce looked like he wasn't sure whether he should laugh or cry, and in the end his face got caught somewhere in between, in a grimace that wilted all but the most steadfast smiles... namely, Thor's. "You guys," he said, his voice sounding pinched. "You..."

"You didn't think we were going to let you skip out on the Christmas party, did you?" Thor boomed. "Since you couldn't come to us, we decided to come to you!" 

"That's... wow," Bruce said. "Wow. Thank you."

"What are friends for?" Thor asked. 

"Let me just get him back into bed," the orderly or nurse or whoever it was said, and helped Bruce out of the chair, although he looked like he would have preferred for him not to. Once he was settled back under the blankets, the orderly left.

"We brought food," Carol said, "and everyone brought their gifts, so we can still do the Secret Santa."

"I don't have mine," Bruce said. "It's... still at home."

"Who did you have?" Steve asked, and Clint suddenly worried that it was Tony or someone who maybe wouldn't have cared about the present, but might have used it as an excuse to go off about the personal affront they felt Bruce's suicide attempt had been.

"Thor," Bruce sighed. "I'm really sorry."

"No worries," Thor said, and Clint was pretty sure he wasn't the only one who breathed a mental sigh of relief. "It just means we'll all have to get together again." He beamed, and Loki (standing just behind his left shoulder) rolled his eyes. 

"Your doctor said that you should stick to foods that are pretty easy on the stomach," Steve said. "But that you eat regular food as long as you're careful."

"Right," Bruce said, looking down. "Guys, I'm really—"

"If you're going to say you're sorry, don't," Tony said. "If you're going to try to send us away, don't do that either. We're here, and we're not going anywhere. We've been here all night, ever since I found you, and—"

" _You_ found me?" Bruce interrupted. "Not—"

"Yes, _me_ ," Tony said. "Who else? Who else cares enough to come try to find you when you don't show up after you'd promised at least three times that you would definitely be there, that you wouldn't be late this time, you wouldn't miss it?"

"I thought..." But Bruce didn't say what he thought. He just stared down at his hands where they rested on the blanket. "Tony, I'm sorry. I didn't mean for you to find me."

"Obviously not," Tony said. "You didn't mean for _anyone_ to find you, but I did, and you're _welcome_ , by the way, because if I hadn't you would probably be _dead_ and I'm going to choose to believe that it was a fit of temporary insanity or something, that you never really _meant_ to swallow those pills and try to remove yourself from the human race, because if you _did_ mean it then it just goes to show me that you're just as selfish as—"

"Tony, now isn't—" Steve started, but Tony glared at him. 

"Now is _exactly_ the time," Tony snapped. "What other time is there? If this has taught us anything, it's that we don't know how much time we have to say the things that we want to say, because even if we keep living, the person we want to say them to might not be around to hear them so we'd better say them while we still have the chance."

Clint felt Natasha press against his side, and her arm wrapped around his waist. He slipped his around her shoulders and held her there, his fingers digging in maybe a little harder than they might have otherwise, but Tony was right, wasn't he? Maybe not as right for them as he might have been a year ago, or even six months, but still right. They knew what it felt like to live on borrowed time, and to watch someone walk away and not be sure if you would ever see them again.

He swallowed hard, forced himself not to go too far down that particular branch of memory lane. 

"I'm sorry," Bruce said, swallowing hard and pushing his glasses back up. "I'm so sorry, Tony. I'm sorry to all of you. I wasn't thinking clearly... I wasn't thinking at all, and..." 

"Did you want to die?" Tony asked. "Tell me that. Did you really want to die?"

Bruce didn't say anything, but for once Tony was quiet. He didn't jump to conclusions or demand an immediate response. He gave Bruce the time and space he needed to answer the question, which maybe Tony would never fully understand how it wasn't always an easy question, but it seemed like he understood enough to at least give Bruce a chance to be honest about it, instead of just blurting something out.

"No," he said finally. "I didn't want to die."

"Then _why_?" Tony demanded. 

Whatever Bruce said was too quiet for Clint to hear, even in the near-silence of the room as the group held their collective breath. He felt Natasha twitch and looked down at her. She freed her arm from where it gripped his waist and signed, _He said he did it because he wanted to get away from his father._ She glanced at Bruce, then added, _His father told him the only way he was getting away from him was in a body bag._

There was something in her eyes that told him that maybe she wasn't entirely unfamiliar with threats of that kind, that maybe her uncle... not her uncle... that man, had said something similar to her once, or more than once. It wouldn't have surprised him. 

"He was going to take me away," Bruce said, speaking loud enough now that Clint could mostly understand, although Natasha was still signing for him to make sure he didn't miss anything, "and I'm not old enough to say no. He made sure to remind me of that. He was going to drag me to God knows where and... no. I didn't want to die. But I couldn't think of any other way out and so when he left to go get something, told me to pack and be ready when he got back, I just... swallowed a bunch of pills instead."

"He left?" Tony asked.

"Yeah."

"So you took pills."

"Yes."

"Instead of coming to see me like you were supposed to, and getting away from him that way?" Tony asked, his voice deceptively calm. 

"I had no way to get there," Bruce said.

"You could have called and I would have sent someone to get you," Tony said.

"They might not have gotten there on time," Bruce said. "I didn't know how long he would be gone."

"But you thought it would be long enough for you to die of a drug overdose," Tony replied. "That's not instantaneous, so you must have figured you had at least what, ten, fifteen minutes? Someone could have been there in that time, Bruce, if you'd asked."

"You don't... it's just been..." Bruce shook his head. "I'm sorry. I don't know what else to say. I'm sorry, and I don't want to die, and I won't do it again, but I have to get away from him."

"So we'll get you away from him," Tony said. "You can come live with me." He nodded, crossed his arms. "Yeah, you'll come live with me. Done deal."

It wasn't that simple. Maybe Tony thought it was, thought it would be, but the rest of them knew that it wasn't. Still, as long as Tony thought that everything was settled, they might still be able to salvage the day. 

"So what do we want to do first?" Tony asked. "Food or presents?" Before anyone could respond, he rolled his eyes. "That's a stupid question. Of course everyone wants presents first. Santa, start handing them out!"

By Santa, he meant Thor, who was, in fact, wearing a Santa hat perched atop his blonde head. Thor went over to the tree and began handing around the gifts. 

"One at a time," Pepper said, "so everyone can see."

"You first," Tony said, his face lighting up. "Come on, open it!"

The package was medium-sized and flat, sort of clipboard sized and shaped, and Clint started to wonder if maybe that's what her secret Santa had gotten her – a really nice, fancy clipboard. Did such a thing even exist? But when she opened it, it was a tablet computer, much nicer than the old beat up one she'd been using earlier which Clint suspected had been secondhand at best, because she would have taken better care of it.

"Stark Tech?" she asked, looking at the logo on the top. "Tony! We had a spending limit!"

"It didn't cost me anything but time!" Tony argued. "All of the parts were just lying around, I swear!"

Pepper shook her head. "No, Tony. I can't. It's too much."

"You have to," Tony said. "It's personalized just to you. It won't be any good for anyone else. If you don't take it, it'll just end up a piece of junk, and you don't want that to happen, do you?"

Her eyes welled with tears, and she pulled him into a hug. Tony flashed a thumbs-up to the rest of the group, which made them laugh, which made her push him away, wondering what he'd done, and the tension eased a little.

"Who's next?" Tony asked.

"Loki is," Pepper said. 

"Why me?" Loki asked, like he was being picked on instead of getting to open a gift.

"Because I had you. It just makes sense. Go on." 

Clint shook his head slightly. Of course Pepper would find a way to make things happen in a neat and orderly fashion. 

Loki unwrapped his gift and held it up, looking like he was trying to be happy about it and not quite getting there. It was the complete works of Shakespeare, with a fancy binding, and Clint would have thought that that would have thrilled him, but apparently not.

"I know you probably already have a copy," Pepper said, "but this one is special. It's got all the music in it for all the songs, and there's a DVD in the back that someone made about how the words actually would have been pronounced in Elizabethan times and stuff."

His eyes went wide. "Oh," he said, holding it a little tighter to his chest. "Thank you." He looked over at Jessica. "You're next," he said. 

Jessica untied the ribbon and peeled away the paper carefully, like she was trying to preserve it. "Just rip it!" Carol encouraged, and Jess shot her a horrified look, which turned into almost a scowl, and then she dug her nails in and tore into the paper like it had offended her. It all happened fast enough that most of the others probably didn't notice, but Natasha's eyebrows went up as she glanced at Clint. He didn't know, and he wasn't going to speculate. At least not right now.

When she got at what was inside, Jessica smiled. "Thank you," she said, showing everyone a cookbook from some famous pastry chef. She started flipping through the pages, her attention wholly absorbed.

Pepper cleared her throat. "Sorry, but... who's next?"

Jessica looked up and the excitement slid from her face. "Oh. Him." She pointed at Bruce, then went back to her book until Carol nudged her. 

_She's kind of taking it personally,_ Natasha explained, turning towards Clint to put her body between the words she signed and the eyes of the others. _After all the time she took trying to find something for him, the fact that he almost didn't live to get it..._

Bruce looked down at the box in his hands and opened it slowly, frowning in concentration or maybe because it was really starting to sink in, not just what he'd almost done to himself, but what his actions had done to those around him, who were all, at least on some level, his friends. 

"Molecular gastronomy," he said. "I've heard of that. Gels and foams and paper imprinted with the flavor of food and stuff. Very cool."

"I don't know much about science," Jessica said, "but I figured science and food, how could you possibly go wrong?" 

Natasha covered a snort with a cough, and Jessica shot her a look that should have killed her where she stood.

"Thank you," Bruce said, smiling at her. She just nodded, and his smile fell. "Thor would be next, but..."

"But instead it will be Clint," Thor said. "I... really didn't have any idea what to get you," he admitted a bit sheepishly. 

Clint unwrapped his gift and found a stack of homemade CDs, mixes he assumed, but maybe just albums that Thor thought he would like. "This is awesome," he said, smiling at Thor.

"I thought maybe since you're – since you don't have all of your hearing, you might not listen to music, but Natasha assured me that you do," Thor said.

"I do," Clint said. "And it's okay to say that I'm deaf." He smiled. "Seriously, it's great." He meant it. He would rather have this, which Thor had obviously put some time and effort into, than something he found in a store somewhere. He'd expected something having to do with archery or the circus, but this was better.

"Your turn," he told Carol, and she tore into the wrapping paper (that Natasha had had to show him how to make anything remotely resembling neat, and even then, it was a _very_ remote resemblance) without hesitation.

She looked at him, slightly puzzled, holding a book in each hand. 

"They're about pilots," Clint said, "in World War II. The... what was it? Women's Airforce Auxiliary or something? They're fiction, but I figured if I got you any of the non-fiction books, you probably already had them, and one of them won an award so it's got to be good, right?"

Carol's smile brightened. "I'm sure they'll be great. Go ahead, Natasha."

Natasha's gift was a set of Russian nesting dolls. "матрёшка," she called them. " _Matryoshka._ "

"They're famous warrior women," Carol said. "There's one of Lydia Litvyak in there."

Natasha smiled. "Of course there is," she said. "This is why you choose them."

"Well, yeah," Carol admitted. "It's not too stereotypical, is it?"

"No," Natasha said. "Is good." Clint watched the way her fingers traced over the lines of the paint, and wondered what she was thinking. "Now Steve," she said.

For Steve she'd gotten a bunch of art supplies. "Is predictable," she said. "But I know you will turn them into something good."

"Thank you," he said, looking genuinely thrilled, but Clint was pretty sure he would have been happy with anything. 

"Now me!" Tony said, since they'd come full circle. His gift was large and flat, and, they discovered, very well-wrapped. Layers and layers of paper protected what was inside. When he finally revealed the contents, his jaw dropped. "It's... me?"

"More or less," Steve said. They all gathered around to look, and Tony made sure to turn it so that Bruce could see from his bed. It was a painting of a figure in silhouette, working on some sort of blue, glowing device, surrounded by computer screens and the silhouettes of other machines. It was obvious that Steve had put a lot of time and thought into the composition and painting of it.

"I..." Tony just shook his head, staring. "Thanks," he managed. "Let's, uh, let's eat."


	22. Chapter 22

Mrs. Sullivan didn't even argue with Clint when he asked if he could spend the night with Natasha. It left him feeling wrong-footed, but pretty much everything about the last couple of days had, so it wasn't really anything new. He knew that eventually the other shoe would drop, he would do something to piss his foster mother off, and things would go back to the way they'd always been, but he was going to try to enjoy the truce while it lasted. 

They'd stayed with Bruce for as long as the doctors and nurses had let them, but eventually they'd been more or less kicked out, because Bruce needed to rest and needed more tests and needed to this, that and the other person. No one was saying it out loud, but they all pretty much knew that he was going to be there for at least a couple of days. Even if he was cleared medically, he'd tried to kill himself, and that meant a 72-hour psychiatric hold until they were absolutely, 100% sure that he was no longer a danger to himself.

(Clint himself had been threatened with that when he was in the hospital and he'd flipped out when he'd been told that he might never recover his hearing. He'd screamed that he'd rather be dead than deaf, and everyone had gone still and stared at him, and he'd been told on no uncertain terms that if he said anything like that again, he was going to find himself at least temporarily in the loony bin.)

Tony had stayed; no one – not even Pepper – could convince him to go home at that point. Maybe he was hoping that he would get a chance to talk to Bruce alone, or maybe he was just afraid that if he was too far away, he would be able to save Bruce again if something happened, or maybe it was something else that Clint couldn't think of or imagine. Whatever it was, Clint understood it. If it had been Natasha in that hospital bed, if things had gone differently last winter, or anywhere along the way, really, there wouldn't have been anything that anyone could do or say to make him leave her side, or as close to it as he could get.

Steve had decided to stay with him, at least for a little while, even though Tony had protested that he would be fine. Pepper had had to go home, but she'd reassured them all (when they were far enough away that he couldn't overhear) that she would check in on Tony periodically, too.

Thor and Loki had left; they had family obligations or something, or maybe Loki had just had enough human interaction for the day. Clint couldn't fault him for that (for once). He'd kind of had it with all of this togetherness too, but he wasn't going to say it. 

It wasn't that he wasn't concerned about Bruce; he was. They were all concerned about Bruce. It was only that he couldn't maintain that level of emotion for so long without it starting to feel like it had burned right through him, and what reserves he had were turned toward Natasha, and the fact that eventually it would catch up to her what she'd done, what she'd said, what she'd revealed about herself to everyone. She'd broken down the night before; they both had. But he wasn't sure that was going to be the end of it.

So he went home with her to Mr. Fury's, and found that the spot he usually parked in was currently filled with Carol's beat up old car. She'd offered Jess a ride home. He hadn't known she was staying. He looked over at Natasha and she shrugged. _I don't think anyone wants to be alone tonight,_ she signed. 

_I guess not,_ he admitted. They got out and went inside, surprised when they didn't find Jessica in the kitchen. That was where she went when she was stressed, and Clint couldn't imagine that she wasn't, especially after what Natasha had said about her taking Bruce's attempted suicide personally.

They went up to Natasha's room, and as they passed Jessica's door could hear voices inside. Natasha hesitated for a second, but either she decided not to eavesdrop after all or couldn't make out what they were saying (Clint sure as heck couldn't) because she started moving again after a moment. 

In her room, she started tidying, straightening the covers on the bed and picking up the fallen clothing, putting her backpack in the closet, crumbling up stray bits of paper and tossing them in the basket. Clint watched her, not sure what to do, wanting to stop her and ask her what was wrong, but what kind of stupid question would that be? He knew what was wrong, and making her talk about it when she wasn't ready wouldn't do either of them any good. But watching her was making him twitchy, and he was afraid to move because it felt like if he did he would get in her way, disturb the order she was enforcing on the space, upset her somehow.

"'Tasha," he said, when she finally went still, just standing in the middle of the room with her back to him. He took a step closer, his hands out, almost but not quite touching her shoulders. "'Tasha..."

She turned, looked up at him, and she fought it, she tried, but for the second time in as many days, the mask she wore crumbled, and when he touched her, drew her in, she didn't protest, and when his own tears joined hers (even though he didn't know who or what he was crying for – did it matter?) neither of them said a word. 

But the urgency of the night before had given way to exhaustion, and when they kissed it was for comfort and nothing more, and when they fell into bed it was fully clothed, and their only desire was for sleep.

Except sleep didn't come, and they couldn't find any position to settle in where they were both comfortable, and eventually they just gave up. Clint grabbed his hearing aids from the nightstand and put them back in. "Downstairs?" he asked.

"Yeah." Natasha sighed and grabbed his hoodie, putting it on and flipping the hood up over her head, her hands buried in the pockets. 

Clint just shook his head and followed her down. He wasn't really surprised to find that Jess and Carol were already down there, sitting in the dark living room with the TV on – surprise, surprise – Food Network. The volume was down so low he couldn't really make out what was being said, and he wondered if they could, either, or if they cared. 

Jessica looked up when they came in, then drew up her knees to make room. The couch wasn't really meant for four people, but they made themselves all fit anyway. The fact that it made it necessary for Natasha to be half in his lap didn't bother Clint. 

Natasha reached for the remote and Jessica made a noise of protest, but it was quelled when Natasha only used it to turn on the subtitles so Clint could follow along if he wanted to. "Right," Jessica said softly, and turned her attention back to the screen. 

The show went to commercials, and Carol looked away from the screen, over at the rest of them, her forehead creased with frustration or annoyance or something that wasn't good. "So are we just not going to talk about it?" she asked. 

"Talk about what?" Clint asked. "The fact that Bruce tried to kill himself? What good is that going to do?"

"He didn't succeed," Natasha said. "That is what matters."

"I was actually thinking more about the fact that no one seems to be acknowledging the fact that it's pretty clear that someone beat the hell out of him," Carol snapped. "Does that not matter either?"

They were silent. It wasn't that it didn't matter, but what was there to say about it? His father had beaten him up, and then threatened to take him away from everything he cared about, and it had driven him to the point of just wanting to end everything. It probably wasn't the first time, either.

"Don't you want to know who did it?" Carol demanded. "Don't you want to know what happened?"

"His father did it," Clint said. Bruce had basically said as much.

"And you're _okay_ with that?" Carol looked like her head was about to explode. 

"No," Natasha said, "but what we can do?"

Carol stared at her. " _Tell_ someone, for one thing," she said. "You're acting as if you knew this was going on, that this was happening. You're acting like it's not a big deal, like it happens all the time and it's just a fact of life that doesn't even bear discussing."

Natasha pursed her lips, frowning. Jessica's gaze slid sideways, and Clint sighed. "Well it kind of is," he said. "A fact of life. People are assholes, shit happens, you deal with it and you move on." He'd been beaten as bad as Bruce was on a pretty regular basis, until he'd gotten old enough to figure out when his father was ramping up and get away before he could get started, and then he'd gotten big enough to fight back and it had lost some of its appeal for his father. 

"That's not how life works," Carol said. "That's not normal."

"You're talking to the wrong people if you're looking for normal," Jessica said softly.

Carol looked at her and shook her head, sighed. "It just doesn't seem right."

"Is not _right_ ," Natasha said. "No one is saying is _right_. We are only say it _is_."

"So what are we going to do about it?" Carol asked. 

"He's safe in the hospital for now," Clint said. "It buys us a few days."

"Tony said Bruce can stay with him," Jessica said. 

"I don't think Tony can just make that happen," Carol said.

"I wouldn't be so sure," Clint said. He realized then that when Tony had announced that Bruce was going to stay with him, he'd sort of assumed that it would be true, and let himself off the hook. Tony would take care of it and they didn't have to be responsible anymore. Which probably wasn't a good assumption to make. But Tony was Tony, and a Stark. "If he wants it to happen, he probably knows the right people with the right strings to pull to get it done. He'll just say his father gave the okay... maybe slip something in front of him to get him to sign it, or just forge his signature." Tony had told them about doing both on more than one occasion. 

"And Bruce's dad won't try to fight it?"

"I don't think anyone's going to be too inclined to send Bruce back to his dad any time soon," Clint said. "Not after this. He's already got a record a mile long, including the murder of Bruce's mother, so..."

Carol's jaw dropped. "You're kidding."

"Nope."

"How...?" She couldn't even finish the question.

"Good behavior. Second chances. I don't think he'll get a third." At least Clint hoped he wouldn't, because if Bruce was forced to go back to living with him, to even see him again, he suspected that it would end very badly... and he wasn't sure who would be the one who got the worst of it. Because Bruce had it in him, too, that violent temper that his father had finally let loose on him, and he wasn't the biggest kid, but he was strong enough to do some serious damage, and even if his father deserved it, he didn't want to see his friend end up locked up.

Carol was quiet then, maybe thinking or maybe feeling defeated by the whole situation. Clint couldn't really blame her. What was it like, he wondered, to have a view of the world where you actually saw the good in people, where you actually trusted them until they prove untrustworthy instead of the other way around? Where violence wasn't an everyday occurrence, a way of life?

He wrapped his arms around Natasha and buried his face against the back of her shoulder. She reached back to run her nails through his hair, scratching behind his ear like he was a dog. He snorted a laugh, and he couldn't see her face but he imagined her smiling, mostly because he wanted her to be. 

Carol didn't try to start any more conversations about the subject, and eventually Clint started to feel tired as well as exhausted. "Bed?" he asked.

"Mm," Natasha agreed, and got up, disentangled herself from the afghan they'd wrapped themselves in. "Night," she said to Jessica and Carol.

"Good night," Jess replied.

"Merry Christmas," Carol added.

"Merry Christmas," Clint echoed, and followed Natasha back upstairs. 

This time they got ready for bed properly, and Clint noticed that once again Natasha was sleeping in a t-shirt that had once been his. He hadn't given it to her; he just assumed that it had gotten lost or damaged in the wash or something and Mrs. Sullivan hadn't told him she'd gotten rid of it. 

Natasha crawled into the bed first, taking the spot by the wall which was usually Clint's and holding up the blankets for him to join her. He flipped off the overhead light, and she turned on the small one she had by the bed for reading so they could still see each other. 

_Do you remember?_ , she asked.

_Remember what?_

_Last year... this same night, almost this same time._

Clint glanced at the clock. _I remember._

How could he forget her showing up outside his house, and how he's snuck her in because it was too cold for them to spend the night outside? How could he forget the first night they'd spent together, the first time they'd kissed? (Well, sort of the first time. The first time he counted. The first time he'd been sure she meant it.) 

And how could he forget waking up with her for the first time, the perfect peace of the moment, and how it had shattered?

He took her wrists in his hands gently, turning them over and pressing his lips to the place where her pulse beat just beneath her skin. There were no bruises to mar them this time, and in the morning they wouldn't argue over whether he should ask about things like that or whether he should leave it alone. 

Natasha slipped her hands from his grip, took his face between them, and kissed him softly, an echo of a year ago, a memory in the here and now, and everything and nothing had changed.

This time finding a position where they fit together without anyone's elbow or hip or chin digging in, where no one's circulation was being cut off, came easily, and once the light was off, it wasn't long before darkness dragged them down.

And if it wasn't perfectly peaceful, well, they hadn't expected it would be. Too much had been dredged up for either of them to rest easy. But at least when they inevitably woke each other up with a muffled cry or an abrupt jerk back into consciousness, it didn't take long to settle again, and when morning dawned, it wasn't entirely without hope.


	23. Chapter 23

They went to visit Bruce, separately and in groups, so that he was almost never alone. Clint got the feeling that their presence was starting to annoy some of the doctors and nurses, who were liable to trip over someone pretty much every time they came into the room. Tony almost never left, even though no one was sure that he'd fully forgiven Bruce for what he'd done. 

At least Bruce seemed to get it now, that he did have alternatives. His father hadn't made any effort to see him since that night, or if he had, none of them had heard about it. They hoped it was a good sign, that maybe it meant his father had just given up on him and moved on, but most of them weren't that naïve. 

Bruce refused to pursue anything against his father; he didn't want to call attention to the situation because he thought it would probably just make it worse. He told them that it was better if he just sort of faded into the background for a while, let his father forget. 

His grandparents were contacted, and they agreed to resume custody of Bruce – it was only for a few months, after all, and then he'd be off to college – but they all knew that if it came right down to it, there was nothing that they could do to protect Bruce from their son. Someone had brought up the possibility of contacting Bruce's mother's parents, but as far as he knew they were both dead, and didn't live in the area anyway. Since the spark that had lit the flame that had blown everything up in their faces had been the possibility of his father taking him away, it wasn't really an avenue worth pursuing.

On Friday Clint went to the hospital alone. He and Natasha had been practically inseparable since Christmas Eve, and finally Mrs. Sullivan had insisted that he come home, and Mr. Fury had insisted that Natasha stay there, and so they'd been forced apart. It hadn't taken long for the boys to drive Clint crazy, and rather than go off on them and get himself in trouble, he'd asked if he could go see Bruce. Mrs. Sullivan had agreed, but told him to be back before dinner.

The truth was, Clint wasn't sure he wanted to see Bruce. Not alone. He didn't know what to say; it wasn't like with Natasha where, even though he hadn't known the full extent of the situation, he'd had a pretty good grasp on the fact that something was very wrong, and he'd known that just being there was (sometimes) all she needed from him. 

Bruce... he had no idea how to help Bruce, or even if he could. 

He approached his friend's hospital room slowly, his hands shoved deep in his hoodie pockets. As he approached, he heard someone talking – a young someone, it sounded like, female, but not one of the nurses, and not Natasha, Jess, Carol, or Pepper – and he stopped. It was better to know what he was walking into; he'd learned that early on.

"I'm just saying," the girl said, "it could be worse."

"It's just... overwhelming," Bruce said. "I feel like I have to put on a happy face for all of them, and—"

"At least you have visitors," the girl said, cutting him off. "All I've got is my mother. She won't even let my brother come. She's afraid he'll bring in some weird germ off the street and infect me or something. God knows what kind of measures she goes through to make sure she's germ-free before coming in to see me."

"The hospital is actually the worst place to be in some cases," Bruce said, probably glad to change the subject. "They've got all kinds of procedures in place to try to keep everything clean and safe, but there are more bacteria and germs here than out there, or worse ones."

"Thanks," his companion said dryly. "That's really reassuring."

"Sorry," Bruce said, sounding beaten. "I didn't—"

"I'm _kidding,_ " she replied. "Geez, grow a sense of humor. Anyway, as I was saying, at least you have visitors."

"You have your mother, and that's better than nothing. At least you _have_ a mother," Bruce argued, finally standing up for himself a bit.

"Oh don't throw yourself a pity party," she replied. Clint could practically hear her rolling her eyes. "I would trade you any day."

"Maybe your mother is keeping them away," Bruce suggested. "Like with your brother."

"Maybe," she said, "but I doubt it. I don't have friends like you've got. Acquaintances, sure, but no one who was willing to sit up all night in a hospital, waiting to hear if I'm all right. No one who makes sure that I'm not alone 24/7. Overwhelming or not, you're lucky."

Before he could answer, though, she said, "Speaking of, I'm pretty sure there's someone here to see you. They're just lurking outside the door, which, for the record, is kind of rude. But I'll let the creeper come in, and I'll see you later, maybe. Unless they let you out early for good behavior."

Clint winced, and wondered if Bruce did too. Either the girl didn't know the whole story (likely) or she just didn't care (also possible; she didn't seem the sort of person who was inclined to walk on eggshells under any circumstances), but in either case, it wasn't a phrase that Bruce was likely to ever want to hear again.

The girl looked at him as she came out, her eyebrows raised. She was tallish, thin, with long blonde hair and glasses. "Hi, creeper," she said. "He's all yours."

"Thanks," Clint said. He watched as she walked away, taking an IV pole with her and moving slowly, like something hurt. When she disappeared around the corner, he took a deep breath and went into Bruce's room. "Hey."

"Hey," Bruce said, looking past him like he expected someone else to be coming in after him. When no one appeared, he asked, "Where's Natasha?"

Clint couldn't help laughing. "Not with me, for once," he said. "She had stuff she had to do at home."

"Ah." Bruce shifted, pushed ups his glasses, looked at Clint, then away. "So... how are you?"

"Fine," Clint said. "How are you?"

"Good."

And then neither of them knew what to say, so they sat in silence, squirming and searching for some kind of neutral topic. Finally Clint asked, "Who was that?"

"Just some girl," Bruce said. "She stops by sometimes when her mother starts driving her crazy."

"What's her deal?" 

Bruce shrugged. "She's got some kind of infection or something. She hates it here, but she's not allowed to go home until it's gone. She found out there was someone else her age here and just turned up at my door one day, in one of the rare moments that no one was here."

"We're driving you crazy, huh?" Clint said, not caring if he gave away that he'd been eavesdropping. Bruce's visitor had already ratted him out, so what did it matter? 

"A little," Bruce admitted, looking sheepish. "I'm not used to having people around me all the time. And... I get it. I do. Tony's worried. You're all worried. And I guess I gave you reason to be, and that doesn't just go away overnight. I know it's my own fault, but I don't need people watching over me all the time to, to stop me from... to save me from myself. It was a stupid move, a stupid mistake, and I don't plan to make it again."

"Have you told Tony that?" Clint asked. 

"About a million times," Bruce said. "Or... well, a few times. Maybe not in those words, but... he has to know that I wouldn't."

Clint shrugged. "Maybe you should tell him again. It's probably going to take a while before he believes you. You're his best friend, and for all that he acts sometimes like he doesn't need anyone, doesn't care about anything but his own stuff, I'm pretty sure that it's just a... a role, a part he plays. Tony Stark, rich genius kid who only cares about himself."

"Yeah, I know," Bruce said. "But... it's..." He frowned, sighed. "It wasn't about him. I wasn't trying to get away from him. I wasn't thinking about him at all... or really thinking at all. It was..." He stopped himself, clearly frustrated. "I don't want to have to keep apologizing. I don't want to have to keep explaining. I don't want him to hold this over my head forever. I just want things to go back to the way they were."

"Keep wishing," Clint said. "There's no going back. You're gonna have to find a new normal." He shrugged again, thought of Natasha and the fact that that night had been the breaking the point. How after that, she'd finally let him in, all the way in, and together, and with the help of their friends, they'd finally been able to make a real change. "Sometimes it's better than the old one."

Bruce nodded, but Clint suspected it would probably take a while for it to sink in, and maybe it wouldn't. Silence descended again, but it wasn't quite as uncomfortable this time. Now it felt less like there was nothing to say and more like there was too much, and not the right words to say it. "It feels like I've lived an entire lifetime in the last four days," Bruce said finally.

"I think we all have," Clint said. It was a feeling that he was starting to get used to, which kind of scared him. He wondered if it was normal, if it was a teenage thing, and the difference was only in scale and degree, or if they really were stuck in some kind of issue-of-the-week teenage soap opera that other kids didn't go through on any level.

"Do you know yet when they're going to let you out?" he asked finally, when it became clear that Bruce wasn't going to say anything.

"No," Bruce said. "But soon. They've pretty much cleared me of being crazy, although they want me on antidepressants and going to see a therapist... which I already do, so I guess they want me to go more or something... or maybe actually talk to him... but there's still one final evaluation before they officially check the box that says I'm sane enough to walk out the door. Medically... they say I'm lucky. Really lucky. With what I took, I could have done my kidneys, liver, all of that some pretty serious damage, but all of the tests have come back good. I'll have to get tested periodically, but... basically, it's sort of a best case scenario that way. If Tony hadn't found me when I did, though... it might not have been."

"Good thing he did, then," Clint said, looking at him sidelong, searching for a real reaction because he knew that Bruce would agree, whether he meant it or not. 

"Good thing," Bruce replied, and it seemed like he meant it... or at least he – Bruce, not Clint – was pretty sure he meant it. Maybe he hadn't quite decided yet, and maybe only time would tell.

"You're going back to stay with your grandparents?"

"Sort of," Bruce said. "In theory, yes, but... mostly I'm going to be staying with Tony, I think. I'm pretty sure he'll insist on it, and as long as he's not all over me all the time... I don't mind it. It's probably better. They've got security and everything, which my grandparents don't have, so if..."

He didn't need to finish he thought. If his father came after him, he wouldn't be able to get through easily. 

"Does the school know?" Clint asked, then realized it was a stupid question. Whether or not they had officially been alerted, Mr. Fury knew. "Sorry," he said, smiling crookedly. "Natasha's good at keeping secrets, but not _that_ good."

"I'm not sure it would even occur to my father to come looking for me at school," Bruce said. "Strange as that sounds. He kind of... well, he's not an academic, and it just wouldn't be the first place he'd go looking."

"Do you think he will?"

"I don't know," Bruce said. "I hope not."

And then Tony turned up, and started in on a conversation that was obviously ongoing, and about something mathematical or scientific that flew straight over Clint's head. When it became clear that Tony wasn't going to slow down long enough for anyone to point out that Clint was there and maybe ought to be included, he just waved to Bruce, who flashed him an apologetic smile, and left.

He drove around for a little while, not wanting to go home just yet (and there were still a couple of hours until dinner time) but not having anywhere in particular to go. When he drove past the mall, he pulled in despite the fact that the parking lot was packed, and went inside.

He lasted about a minute before he took out his hearing aids, which lowered the volume of the place to only the slightest rumble (he did have some residual hearing, after all, or the hearing aids wouldn't work) and made it a lot easier to deal with what would otherwise have been completely overwhelming. The crowds made him twitchy, like someone might jump out and grab him or something, and he wondered for a second why he would feel like that before remembering that that exact thing had happened to Jessica the last time they were here.

So yeah. 

He wandered down the corridors, hoping something would catch his eye. He almost walked past the kitchen store without stopping, because they'd spent way too long there with Jessica for no reason (it wasn't even where she'd finally found his present) and he and Natasha had been tempted to just leave her behind to fend for herself (but thank god they hadn't). But he remembered Mrs. Sullivan complaining about her kitchen timer being broken, so he went in to have a look around.

He ended up spending more money than he'd meant to (and he really needed a job...) but after what she'd done, he figured it was worth it to get her a few things that would make her life easier. Unfortunately, the gift-wrapping stations had been shut down for the season, so when he got home he had to rely on his own newfound (lack of) skills to make things look pretty. He stuck bows on them to cover up the worst bits and brought them downstairs at dinner time.

"Better late than never," he said, presenting them to Mrs. Sullivan when they'd all sat down. 

"You didn't have to get me anything," she said. "We told you—"

"I know. It's nothing much."

"Open them, Mom!" Connor said. "Come on!" He started to scramble out of his chair, but Mr. Sullivan grabbed him and held him in place. 

So she opened the gifts, a timer that could be set for three different things at the same time, plus some spatulas and things that he remembered her mentioning were wearing out. "Thanks you," she said, dabbing at her eyes with her napkin. "They're perfect. Exactly what I needed."

For a second he thought she was going to reach out and hug him, and if she had he would have let her. But she didn't, and that was probably just as well. He just shrugged and smiled, crooked but genuine. "Merry Christmas."


	24. Chapter 24

Natasha handed him a travel mug of coffee the minute he stumbled into the school, feeling like his jaw might crack from yawning. He hadn't slept well at all the night before, waking from one nightmare and falling straight back into another... or sometimes a continuation of the one he'd just woken from. He'd considered calling Natasha, but he didn't want to disturb her if she was actually managing to sleep.

From the dark smudges under her eyes, she hadn't been, and now he was regretting not reaching out. On the other hand, she hadn't either. But on the other other hand (he was a circus freak, after all) she'd probably been thinking the same thing he had. He smiled at her sheepishly. _Thank you,_ he signed. _It's too early._

_And Saturday,_ she agreed. 

But it wasn't as if they had anywhere better to be. Pepper had made sure to call all of them yesterday to remind them that despite what was going on in other parts of their life, there was still play rehearsal on Saturday morning. "The show must go on," she'd said.

Clint wondered what happened with people who went away for the holidays, like for the whole week. He assumed that they must have to make some kind of special arrangement or something, and then Pepper would just figure out a way to work around them. But from the clusters of kids coming in, it looked like there weren't going to be a lot of absentees. Which was good, because it meant Pepper wouldn't be stressed out, and Pepper not being stressed was better for everyone.

"Meeting in the auditorium in five minutes," Pepper said as she bustled past, clipboard firmly in hand as always. Clint couldn't help noticing that the Stark Tech tablet was on top of it; apparently she'd decided to accept Tony's gift after all. "Everyone needs to be there."

"We'll be there," Clint assured her, taking another sip of his coffee and hoping the caffeine would make its way to his brain soon. 

"Is it even safe for us to be using power tools at this hour of the morning?" Carol grumbled.

" _What_ is on your head?" Jessica asked. Clint hadn't heard her approach.

"It's my lucky hat," Carol said, grinning. Clint turned to look and his jaw dropped. The hat was... colorful. And possibly adorned with flowers? And it had ear flaps. Definitely ear flaps.

"It's..." Jessica was clearly at a loss for words. 

"Wow," Clint said. 

Natasha just shook her head. "How do you know is lucky?"

"Because the woman who made it for me told me so," Carol replied. "Anyway, how can it not be? Wearing a hat like this is like flipping a giant middle finger to the universe. Who is going to mess with you when you so obviously don't care what anyone thinks and might possibly be insane?" Her grin broadened, but she tugged it off, then pushed her tangled hair from her face. 

Jessica smirked. "Thank God," she said. "Now I can actually look at you without fear of damage to my eyes."

"What was that?" Carol asked. "Was that a comment on my _glowing_ personality?"

"Very punny," Jess said, rolling her eyes, and they were about to head into the auditorium when the door banged open as Tony came bounding in.

"Guess who's back?" he announced, far too awake. Bruce came in after him, moving a bit slowly, like he was still a little shaky on his feet, and for all they knew he was. Even though he'd been cleared medically with no permanent damage, it didn't mean he was going to be instantly back to 100%. "It's Bruce!" Tony continued, pointing out the obvious, and the volume of his voice made several of them, including Bruce, wince. 

Pepper came striding by again, coincidence or maybe she'd heard Tony practically shouting and had come to investigate, and stopped when she saw Bruce. "I'm glad you're back," she said, smiling at him. "I didn't know if you were going to be out."

"They released me this morning," Bruce said. "Tony came and got me so I wouldn't miss out."

"That's great," she said. "We're just about to start, if you all want to make your way into the auditorium."

"No one disappear after," Tony said. "We need to celebrate."

Bruce didn't look overly thrilled with the idea, or like he was really up to celebrating, but now wasn't the time to try and convince Tony of anything. So they went into the auditorium and found seats, sitting together for now, until they need to break up into their respective crews.

Clint zoned out during the meeting, figuring that someone would tell him anything important. It was mostly announcements about selling ads for the play program, which helped finance the drama club's productions, since what the school gave them apparently wasn't enough, and the rehearsal schedule coming up, when they were expected to be off book, stuff that didn't really have much to do with building the set. 

Finally they were released to do what needed doing. Clint had Carol help him round up his crew and wished that he'd remembered to make that list of what needed to get done. He'd sworn to himself (and Pepper) that he would do it over break, but it had slipped his mind. Now he was supposed to be giving people assignments to get them going (and keep them busy) and he didn't have a clue where to start. 

"Guys – and I use that as a gender-neutral term – go get the tools out while we figure out what to tackle first," Carol said, sending them scurrying to give Clint a minute to regroup. "You didn't make the list, did you?" she asked. 

"No," he admitted. "I forgot."

"Lucky for you, I didn't," she said. "I figured maybe you might have had more pressing things on your mind, and anyway, I couldn't sleep."

"Join the club," Clint said, taking the piece of paper and looking it over. He stopped at one of the things listed, pointed to it. "I thought we already—"

"We did," Carol said. "But something's not right with it. I'll have to take a look and figure out what they did to jack it up."

"Great," Clint said. "I feel like we're constantly going two steps forward, one step back with everything."

"Nah," Carol said. "It's definitely at least three steps forward before the one step back, the banged thumb, the drill not working because it's in reverse, and the facepalm. Or faceplant."

"Thanks," Clint said. "That's really reassuring. You sure you don't want this job?"

"Oh I'm sure," Carol said. "It's all yours."

Clint sighed. "Great." He finished looking over the list, added a couple of things that she'd forgotten (or maybe hadn't known about) and started making notes along the side, prioritizing the tasks and trying to rank them on some sort of scale of difficulty to figure out who should be doing what. 

Before he could finish, though, they were all back, staring at him expectantly. "You see those panels there?" he asked. They nodded eagerly. "Take those out into the hall where Steve is set up with the paint crew. They need to get started on them ASAP." 

It sent them scrambling again, and bought him the few extra minutes he needed to get things settled. When they got back, he broke down what needed to be done, and as much as he would have liked to just pick a task to do that he could lose himself in, that wasn't an option. He was in charge and had to keep an eye on everyone to avoid potential disaster. 

Rehearsal ended at one, and by then his stomach was growling. He hadn't had anything but the coffee for breakfast because he'd been running late, and he'd been too busy to even grab a snack. On the plus side, they'd knocked quite a few of the smaller items off the To Do list, and even about one and a half of the big ones. They were all meeting again on Monday, so hopefully they could finish up then.

He went to find Natasha, poking his head into the room where the costume crew was set up, and found her and Jessica glaring daggers at each other. Everyone else had already left, and Clint wondered if they'd been scared off by the silently dueling pair.

"Everything all right?" he asked. 

Natasha turned and looked at him first. "Is fine," she said. "Just go." 

Clint hesitated, but Jessica didn't. She just turned on her heel, heading for the door. 

"I didn't mean her," Natasha grumbled, but didn't try to stop her. She just started to pick things up, putting them into bins.

"What happened?" Clint asked, moving to help her. He didn't know where everything went, but he could figure some of it out, and then he grabbed the broom and began to sweep up the stray bits of the thread that were all over the floor.

"I ask her to help clean up and she thinks I am... I don't know. She just gets angry at me, tells me I cannot order her around."

"Did something happen? Not here. Just in general." 

"I don't know," Natasha said. "I think we all are just tired. Too much... Everything is too much."

Clint heard that, loud and clear. Their lives had been turned upside down. He and Natasha had had more time to adjust to it than Jessica had, and it was the holidays, and then Bruce, and they'd all been forced together, maybe too much and too often, and everyone was overwhelmed. And now Tony wanted them all to get together again. It was enough to make anyone a little irritable, and since that seemed to be Jessica's default state a lot of the time, it wasn't all that surprising that she'd finally just snapped.

"Is there anything I can do?" Clint asked.

Natasha shook her head. "You are doing it," she said. "Thank you for helping clean up."

"No problem," Clint said. Once everything was swept up, he put the broom aside and went to where she was standing, frowning and rubbing the spot between her eyes, and held out his hands, palms up, offering whatever comfort he could give her.

She slid into him, leaning against him with her forehead pressed into his shoulder, and he rubbed her neck and the base of her skull, feeling the tension there. The sound she made as he massaged it away went straight through him...

... so of course that was the precise moment that Tony chose to pop in. "Get a room, you two!" he joked.

Natasha jerked away, and Clint got a hold of her arm – loose, but ready to clamp down if necessary – to keep her from lunging at him and putting her fist through his face. 

Tony held his hands up. "Easy there, tiger," he said. "I just wanted to let you two know that we're going to get lunch. Bruce isn't up to everyone getting together today, but we're all hungry so we figured we could at least do that."

"We'll be there in a minute," Clint said. "We just need to finish getting stuff put away here."

Tony opened his mouth, probably to make a joke, but the look on Natasha's face seemed to make him think better of it. "We'll be in the lobby."

"Damn him," Natasha said when he was gone. "How he can always be around people? How he can stand it?"

"Some people are like that," Clint said. "If you don't want to go, I'll take you home... or wherever you want."

Natasha sighed. "Is just lunch," she said after a moment. "I need to eat."

"Okay," Clint said, and offered his hand. He tried not to take her hesitation personally. She was having a rough day, a rough week. They all were. It didn't (necessarily) have anything to do with him. They just had to get through lunch, he told himself. 

From the looks on the faces of the assembled group, that seemed to be what everyone was thinking, including (maybe especially) Bruce. But they all needed to eat, and arguing with Tony was futile when he went into one of these manic 'everything is great!' modes. 

As they were heading out to the parking lot, trying to figure out who was going in what car so that they all fit, Clint heard Bruce grumble, "I hope he finds a new project soon."

Clint couldn't agree more.


	25. Chapter 25

They went to the party because they couldn't think of a good way to say no. They were both tired; tired because of lack of sleep, but tired too of being around people, of too much company and too many demands to pay attention, to react, to fake holiday good cheer when all they wanted to do was tell people exactly where they could stick it. Whatever 'it' was at the moment. Sometimes Clint worried that Natasha was even tired of him, and he tried to make sure that she had space if she wanted it, but he slept better with her than without, and maybe she did too, and anyway she didn't tell him to leave so he stuck around until the Sullivans or Mr. Fury demanded that he go home.

Clint remembered the year before, when Tony had called him out of the blue to invite him to his New Year's Eve party, and somehow he'd convinced his foster parents to let him go. He remembered going to Natasha's to try and convince her to come, and how she'd refused and then turned up just before midnight, saying she wanted to start the new year the way she meant to continue it, and how they hadn't kissed but she'd held him tight and that had been better, almost. 

They didn't need the password to convince the elevator to take them up to the top floor this time. It knew them by now, and Clint tried not to think about the fact that that meant there was some kind of camera or something that recognized them. When he did, he got kind of creeped out.

"Is Jessica coming?" he asked Natasha. 

"With Carol," she said. "Why?"

"Just curious." Jessica had been less pleasant to be around than normal the past few days, and no one knew why, or if anyone did, they weren't saying. Natasha certainly didn't know, although she'd managed to avoid getting into any more fights with her, mostly by making a concerted effort to be wherever she wasn't as much as possible. They'd gotten through yesterday's play rehearsal session without sending the rest of the costume crew fleeing, anyway, and that was something.

"I hope it's not too—" But Natasha's thought was interrupted by the elevator door opening and revealing that the place was packed. "Crowded," she finished with a sigh. Clint put his hand on the small of her back, trying to be reassuring, and she glanced up at him and shrugged. _Happy New Year._

_Maybe it's better,_ Clint said, trying to be optimistic. _At least if the place is filled with other people, it can't turn all..._ He couldn't think of the word, and he was pretty sure that even if he could have, he wouldn't have known the sign for it. _At least it can't be all about our **feelings** and trying to **process** ," he finished. _

__Mrs. Sullivan decided you needed an appointment with your therapist, didn't she?_ , Natasha asked. Clint nodded, and the corner of her mouth quirked up. _Same here. Jessica too.__

__Maybe **that's** what pissed her off,_ Clint suggested._

__Maybe so,_ Natasha agreed. _Might as well face the music." The other side of her lips curved up, turning it into a real smile. _Literally.___

__Even if he hadn't had his hearing aids in, Clint would have been able to feel the music, if not hear it. It was loud enough that it was like a physical presence in the room, trying to knock his heart into a different rhythm. He reached up and turned it down to a dull roar, and wondered what it must be like for people who didn't have volume control on the world._ _

___Lucky,_ Natasha signed. _ _

__He reached out and took her head between his hands, cupping them over her ears to try and block out some of the sound. She laughed and slid her own hands over them, lacing their fingers together before pulling them away. _Let's go get a drink,_ she suggested, leading him by the hand to the makeshift bar._ _

__Like the year before, Bruce was behind it. One of things he was absolutely not allowed to do, at least not for a while (and of course he wouldn't, because he was under twenty-one, the doctors had not-so-subtly hinted), was drink. That didn't stop him from mixing drinks for other people, though._ _

__"I've been studying that book Jessica gave me," he said as he handed two foaming glasses over to them. "Interesting stuff. It gave me some ideas."_ _

__"As long as _she_ didn't give you ideas, probably it will not kill us," Natasha said, and took a sip. Her eyebrows crept up and her nose wrinkled like she was going to sneeze. "Is... _interesting_ ," she said judiciously._ _

__Clint eyed his own glass suspiciously. "Interesting like, 'I can't quite decide if this is good or gross' interesting? Or interesting like, 'I think the secret ingredient might be turpentine' interesting?"_ _

__Bruce laughed. "No turpentine," he promised. "Just arsenic."_ _

__Both Clint and Natasha looked at him a bit strangely, and he grimaced and looked down. "Sorry. I guess that's probably not very funny coming from me right now," he said. "I didn't think."_ _

__"It's all right," Clint said. "I just... guess I wasn't expecting it. But what's in it?"_ _

__Bruce listed off a few kind of liquor, and then some chemicals that Clint couldn't pronounce and certainly didn't recognize, but none of it sounded _lethal_... probably. He took a sip and coughed. "Okay," he said. "Yeah. _Interesting._ "_ _

__"So what you're really saying is, 'Back to the drawing board, Bruce.'"_ _

__" _Someone_ might like it," Natasha said in an attempt to be diplomatic. _ _

__"Someone with a stomach of galvanized steel and a damaged set tastebuds," Clint said, attempting no such thing. "Keep trying, buddy."_ _

__Bruce smiled and poured them fresh drinks that were more alcohol and less lab experiment gone wrong, and sent them on their way._ _

__The alcohol helped. Clint could feel the tension in his muscles easing slightly, the soreness of hammering and drilling and lifting and carrying for the better part of yesterday, followed by a night of doing battle with monsters in his dreams, ebbing away as it made its way into his bloodstream. Natasha likewise seemed to relax, her expression gentling into a smile when she looked at him, and then a mischievous smirk as she pulled him into the center of the room, which had become an impromptu dance floor._ _

__"I don't dance," he said, but she gave him a blank look like she hadn't heard him, or didn't understand. _I don't dance!_ , he repeated, but she just kept looking at him like his words were flying right over her head, and now he knew it was deliberate._ _

__So despite his protests, he danced. Not gracefully or well, but he danced, because she wanted him to. Because even more than the alcohol, moving made everything that had happened in the last few days and weeks slip away. She pressed close to him and moved away, and he was glad that he could feel the beat all through his body because his pulse quickened at the way her fingers traced down his arms and made him miss a step._ _

__They finally left the dance floor when they got thirsty. Their skin was damp with sweat and Natasha's eyes were glowing, her face lit up, looking more alive than she had in a long time. They got bottles of water and sucked them down, leaning against each other, shoulder to shoulder._ _

__"You two looked like you were having fun," Carol said, coming over with a drink in her hand and Jessica in tow. "Jessica won't dance with me." She turned toward the dark-haired girl, her lower lip stuck out in a pout._ _

__"I don't know how," Jessica said. "I'm not going out there so that you can laugh at me!"_ _

__"One, so what? Neither can I. Just move with the music. Two, I would never laugh at you," Carol said, her expression gone suddenly serious. " _With_ you, sure. But not at you."_ _

__"What if I'm not laughing?" Jessica asked._ _

__"Then neither am I," Carol said. "But come on. It's _fun_ , Jess!"_ _

__"Not if you make an idiot of yourself."_ _

__"You're assuming that other people are paying any attention to you at all," Carol said. "Which they're probably not, because they're too busy paying attention to themselves. Sometimes societal narcissism can be turned to your advantage. You're not the star of their movie, honey, but I'm asking you to come co-star in mine. Please?"_ _

__"How you will know if you cannot do a thing unless you try?" Natasha asked. "You are with friends. You are safe. And they are playing your song."_ _

__Jessica looked at her, frowned. "What do you mean?" she asked, cocking her head. "I don't have—"_ _

__"Listen," Natasha said. "Listen to words."_ _

__So Jessica listened, and after a few seconds she nodded, looking almost angry as she strode out onto the floor, flanked by Carol one side and Natasha on the other, with Clint following behind. He couldn't really pick out the lyrics, but whatever they were, they spoke to something in Jessica, and she let go of whatever reserve she held, whatever reason she'd had to keep her from putting herself out there, and she danced._ _

__They all danced, fueled by alcohol and laughter ( _with_ each other, not _at_ , and Carol hadn't been kidding when she'd said she couldn't dance) they left everything but the moment behind, letting themselves forget, letting themselves be young and alive and just like any other group of kids, of friends, having a good time at a party._ _

__The volume of the music dropped as it got closer to midnight, replaced by the piped in sights and sounds of merriment from elsewhere, flickering on the giant screens set up around the room, as they prepared to count down. They left the floor and went in search of water._ _

__Pepper found them as they raided one of the coolers, up to their elbows in melted ice only to come up empty. "There's more in the fridge," she said. "I can get them."_ _

__"Thanks," Carol said. "But isn't this Tony's party? Shouldn't he be taking care of stuff like that?"_ _

__"It's not a problem," Pepper said. "Really."_ _

__"Do you ever just let loose, though?" Carol asked. "I mean, come on. You're always so perfectly in control of everything. You make sure everything gets done, and on time, and you're always looking out for other people, but who looks out for you?"_ _

__Pepper's cheeks flushed, and not just because of the heat in the room. "Don't worry about me," she said._ _

__"No, but I _am_ worried about you," Carol said, leaning in to her. "You're at a _party_ , not even _your_ party, and you're playing hostess. Hell, you don't even particularly _like_ the host of the party, but you're still making sure that everything goes off without a hitch for him. That's... something is not right about that."_ _

__"I like Tony fine," Pepper said, a bit defensive. Clint couldn't really blame her, considering the fact that Carol was kind of getting in her face, both figuratively and literally. Even if she had the best of intentions, he couldn't imagine it was a hell of a lot of fun._ _

__"We'll get it ourselves," Clint said. "We all know where the kitchen is."_ _

__"I don't," Jessica said, not helpfully._ _

__"Well you're about to learn," Clint replied._ _

__But they didn't make it there, because they were met by someone – a server of some kind – handing out glasses of champagne. Pepper started to ask for sparking apple cider, but Carol waved it away. "No. Seriously? No. You only get one life, Pepper Potts, and it's about time you started to live it."_ _

__So Pepper took the champagne, and as the countdown began, she stood with the rest of them (because somehow in the midst of all of these people, their group had ended up clustered together, and Clint was pretty sure that wasn't a coincidence), so that when they got to one, she toasted it with the rest of them and downed the contents of her glass, and when Tony kissed her (on the cheek) she didn't even object._ _

__Clint looked at Natasha, and she slid her arms around his waist, and he buried his face in her hair. "'Tasha..."_ _

__This time she didn't stop him when he moved to kiss her. This year, she kissed him, so that the new year began with the taste of champagne on each other's lips, and nothing could have been sweeter._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thought we were done with bonus chapters? Apparently not! Happy new year, everyone!
> 
> Also, if anyone is curious, the song that gets Jess on the dance floor is Florence and the Machine's "Shake It Out". I think the lyrics can apply to a lot of them, but they really resonate with Jess for me.


	26. Chapter 26

Clint woke up cotton-mouthed, his head aching, hung over and tangled in blankets he couldn't seem to find his way out of. He reached over toward the other half of the bed and found it empty, which brought his heart into his throat. Spots formed in front of his eyes as he sat abruptly upright. "'Tasha?" 

He scrambled to find his hearing aids, because he wouldn't be able to hear her if she called back. She'd been there the night before; he was sure of that much at least. Some of what had happened after midnight was a bit fuzzy – they'd all had too much to drink (except Bruce who couldn't) and Tony had made sure they had places to sleep even as he shuffled the other partygoers out the door – but he knew Natasha had been with him when he'd gone to bed...

... There were marks on his skin to prove it.

He managed to extricate himself from the sheets and blankets that had wound themselves around his legs and luckily saw his hearing aids in the puddle of his jeans before he stepped on them. He stuffed them in his ears and switched them on, but still heard nothing. Her clothing was missing, as was his hoodie, and it would have been a really annoying habit if it hadn't been so damned endearing.

"'Tasha?" he called again, but there was no answer. He padded out into the hall and after a (not-so-brief) stop in the bathroom (where she wasn't) he headed for the kitchen, figuring maybe she'd gotten hungry. He couldn't decide if the rumbling in his stomach was trying to tell him whether food was a good idea or a terrible one.

She wasn't there, but coffee had been made, so he poured himself a cup and went into the living room. He found her curled up in the corner of one of the couches, knees drawn up, feet bare, one hand lost in the sleeve of his hoodie while the other moved across a sheet of paper. 

"There you are," he said, sitting down beside her, his arm draped over the back of the couch, one finger extended to touch the curve a wayward strand of hair, not tucking it back like he often did, just tracing the curve like he was making a note of it. 

She looked up, blinked, not quite startled or maybe just hiding it well. _I made coffee._

He lifted his mug to show her he'd already found it, and she smiled. _What are you doing?_ , he asked.

_Writing a letter._

_A letter? To who?_

She hesitated, then pointed to her own chest.

_Yourself?_

She nodded.

Clint turned that over in his head, around and around like a puzzle piece that almost but didn't quite fit. A letter to herself? She could be lying about it, but why would she lie? But then, why would she write a letter to herself? 

Only one way to find out. _Why?_

She shrugged, looked down at the piece of paper and put down a few more letters, then set down her pen and picked up her mug, taking a sip. _Because I want to remember,_ she finally said. _It's a new year, and at first I thought, 'Good, I can just start over.' New year, new beginning. Clean slate. Except... it's not all bad. And even the parts that **were** bad, I still don't want to forget. Not that I want to relive it, but... I got through it. I survived it. And that's something. That's... it's part of who I am and I don't want to just **forget** that, like it doesn't matter or like..._ She frowned, not finding the words.

But Clint got it. At least he thought he did. It wasn't like he wanted to erase Barney from his memory just because things had ended badly with him. It's not like he wanted to forget the accident. _So you're writing yourself a letter to remember?_

Natasha nodded. _When I'm done, I'll seal it up and maybe next year I'll read it, or in five years or never. But at least I'll have done it._

Clint reached out and touched her foot gently, tracing the lines of the bones beneath her skin, and she cocked her head, eyebrows raised in silent question. _Can I have a piece of paper?_ , he asked.

Her face registered surprise. _Why?_

_So I can write a letter too._

Natasha frowned, and for a minute Clint thought she might not give him a piece of paper, that he might have to find his own. He wasn't sure why, what about it upset her, but something did, or maybe just confused her or he didn't know what, and she kept it locked behind the mask she wore, even in front of him sometimes, even when there was no one else around. 

He hated it, that she could lock herself away like that, hide everything when he didn't or couldn't or wouldn't hide anything from her, but he accepted it. She'd had a lot more reason to do it in her life; a survival skill, because keeping from letting anything that was going on inside show had been a matter of life and death for her, probably more than once.

_Why?_ , she asked again.

_Because I don't want to forget either._

She took his hand, the one that had been resting on her foot, and laced her fingers through his, bringing it to her lips and kissing his knuckles. She held it pressed between her cheek and shoulder for a moment, her eyes almost entirely closed, and then she let it go and handed over two sheets of regular notebook paper and a pen, then leaned over and retrieved a thick book from the coffee table for him to use as an improvised writing desk.

Clint stared at the page, intimidated by its blankness, all of the space there was to fill. He didn't know where to start, what to say, but a glance over at his best friend showed her wholly absorbed in what she was writing, and she couldn't tell him what to write anyway. This was his letter, to his future self, and anyway, it wasn't a school assignment. It wasn't something he was going to get graded. There was no right or wrong way. 

So he started where it began, and where it ended, and so many points in between. He put the pen to the page and on the first line wrote a single word: _Natasha_

And then he kept writing, until his fingers cramped and he had to shake them out, massage them, because he was more used to typing, and he held the pen too tight like it might get away as the words spilled out.

Sometimes he felt Natasha's eyes on him, watching him, and he wondered if she could see what he was writing, and if he minded if she could. But he didn't think she was actually trying to; she was just watching him, as he so often watched her in quiet moments when he thought she wouldn't notice and sometimes even when he knew that she did. 

"What are you doing?" Jessica asked, stumbling into the room and flopping into a chair. She wasn't a morning person at the best of times, and today she looked like she'd been dragged through a hedge backward, or whatever it was that one of the old women in the circus had said.

"Writing letters to ourselves," Clint said. 

Her forehead furrowed. "Why?"

"Because today is the first day of the rest of our lives," he said, because as long as he was spouting clichés or old sayings or whatever, might as well go all in. (And wasn't there one about that, too? Probably, but he couldn't think of it.) "Because maybe someday in the future we'll want to know who we were in the past."

"Why would you want to do that?" Jessica asked. "All I want to do is forget."

Natasha looked up at her then. "So forget," she said, and the words were gentle when Clint hadn't expected they would be. "Forget if is easier."

"It's not _easy_ ," Jessica argued. "It's just..." 

But what it just was, they didn't find out. Jessica retreated to the kitchen, her face fixed in a scowl.

When he was done, Clint looked over at Natasha. _I'll show you mine if you show me yours,_ he teased, and was surprised when she handed hers over without even a second's hesitation.

And then had to laugh, because he couldn't read a word of it. It was written all in Russian, so that even the letters weren't ones he knew. He handed it back to her, leaning over to 'read' it over her shoulder. "Am I in it?" he asked.

" _Da_ ," she said, nodding. 

"Where?" he asked. "Show me where I am."

She slid her arm around his shoulders so that he could settle more easily against her side and pointed to one spot on the page, then another. "You are here," she told him, "and here. And here again." 

"Tell me what it says," Clint said, and so she did, the words like a soft rumble in her throat and in her chest, words he didn't and probably never would understand, but that wasn't the point. He didn't ask for a translation. 

"Am I in yours?" she asked.

"You know you are," he said.

"Show me where I am."

But he didn't reach for his letter, because it wasn't the same. Instead, he took her hand and put it on his chest. "Here," he told her. "You're here."

She smiled and kissed his forehead and reached for his coffee even though they didn't take it the same because it was warmer than his (but not very warm). "We should find envelope," she said. 

"We'll probably have to ask Tony," Clint said. "I wouldn't even know where to start looking."

"Me either," Natasha admitted. "Maybe breakfast first then."

"Maybe." Clint couldn't help wondering if maybe Jessica had disappeared into the kitchen to make something. He was disappointed (and okay, a little relieved) to discover that she hadn't. Instead, she was sitting at the kitchen table with paper and a pen, scribbling away with a look of intense concentration on her face. 

Bruce was there, and Pepper, and they were all writing, and Clint looked at Natasha, who was just staring at the scene like she wasn't sure whether all of their friends had lost their minds. Maybe they had, or maybe it was just that Natasha's idea had been a good one. They'd all been through a lot that year, and maybe it was that they wanted to put it down to remember, or maybe it was that they wanted to get it out, seal it up, and hope that would erase it from their minds. Maybe instead of memories they were writing down dreams, or To Do lists, or who knows what.

It didn't matter. 

It was a new year, a clean slate for all of them, and there were a lot worse ways to start it than with a little bit of quiet contemplation.

Clint was sure that Mr. Coulson would be proud.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this really is the last bonus post for a bit. We will now return to our scheduled weekly drama instead of the daily soap opera. *g*


	27. Chapter 27

None of them were surprised when they arrived in their homerooms and were handed passes to go to Mr. Coulson's office later that morning. Not even Jessica, who had walked out of the first meeting she'd been invited to, or Loki, who'd always been a little at odds with the rest of them and had likewise taken his leave. Even Carol, who had never had any reason to be summoned to the social worker's office (at least not that they knew of) didn't question it.

They all just showed up, making their way through the office and into the meeting room in the back, sorting themselves into their usual seats... except Jess and Carol, who didn't have usual seats, but who made themselves a place on some cushions, their backs against the couch Clint and Natasha shared.

Mr. Coulson came in and glanced around as if he was doing a head count, before looking at each of them again, a long look like he was trying to peer through their eyes to the contents of their skulls, or maybe looking for physical evidence of the emotional wounds he no doubt assumed that they now bore.

Clint had to admit that it wasn't a bad assumption. He didn't think any of them, even those who were sort of on the fringes of the group, had come out of the holidays unscathed. Mostly because of Bruce, but there were other things that had gotten stirred up, he was sure. He'd actually been relatively lucky on that front, when he thought about it; the holidays had actually helped his relationship with the Sullivans. Especially Mrs. Sullivan. Things weren't perfect and probably never would be, but they were better.

"So," Mr. Coulson said after he'd finished sizing them up. "I understand that you all had a rather eventful vacation."

No one said anything, and no one really looked at him. No one looked at Bruce, either, but it was in a sort of pointed, 'I am absolutely not looking at him' kind of way. They didn't want to throw stones, so to speak, and they didn't want to force him back into the middle of things. He'd apologized, and they'd accepted it – more or less (some of them more, some of them less) – and moved on. 

What good would it do to drag it all back up again? But no one was going to say that to Mr. Coulson. Clint was pretty sure it was his _job_ to bring it up again, make sure that Bruce was okay, yeah, but he'd had three days of psychological evaluation to cover that, but what about the rest of them? 

"Does anyone want to talk about what happened?" Mr. Coulson asked. "I'm sure that—"

"We've talked it to _death_ ," Loki said. The corners of his lips curled into a wry smile that flirted with the idea of being a smirk. "No pun intended."

Carol looked at him sharply, her mouth opening like she wanted to say something, but before she got a chance, Bruce snorted, and it wasn't the sort of sound you made when you were annoyed. No, it was the sort of sound you made when you were almost laughing, or trying not to laugh. Like a laughing hiccup, almost. 

"More like we talked it out of death," Bruce said. "But yeah, I think we've all done about as much talking as we really want to about it."

Which Clint thought should have ended the conversation. If Bruce said enough was enough, what good was going to come of dragging it all up again, putting him on the spot, forcing him to have to deal with something that they were all already trying to forget.

Or forgive.

That part was harder.

"It's important that you all get a chance to work through your feelings about what happened," Mr. Coulson said. "I want you all to know that I'm here any time you need me."

"Great," Tony said. "Is that all you wanted us here for?"

"More or less," Mr. Coulson said. "I thought you might all like the chance to decompress a bit. I know it's your first day back, but the week that you had sounds like it might very well have been more stressful than being in school."

Clint couldn't really argue with that. Coming back to school had felt like a relief after a week spent at family gatherings, at the hospital, at home with the boys, at parties. He was still surrounded by people, but now it was mostly by people who ignored him or didn't expect anything from him. But then, he hadn't gotten assigned any homework yet, and none of his teachers had been cruel enough to toss a pop quiz at them on the first day back.

It wouldn't last, of course. Not with midterms in two weeks.

"Shouldn't you be telling us to focus on the positive?" Tony asked. "I mean, we shouldn't dwell on the bad stuff, right? We should think about the future, not get caught up in the past."

"Yes," Mr. Coulson said, "but—"

"So how about instead of trying to make us all 'process' or whatever social work psychobabble you had in mind the almost-but-not-quite-tragic, because Bruce is still very much alive, as you can see, unless he's a zombie... Bruce, are you a zombie?" Tony didn't wait for Bruce to answer. "I didn't think so. So since he's still alive and it wasn't a tragedy, we don't need to, like, grieve or whatever. We're ready to move on. Sorry you missed all the excitement, but I assure you, we were all very self-helpy for a little while. Or each-other helpy. Or whatever you would want us to be, that's what we were."

"I don't want you to be anything," Mr. Coulson said. "I just—"

"Oh right, I never actually said what I meant to say," Tony interrupted. "What I was trying to say before not-zombie Bruce so rudely interrupted me—"

"I didn't..." Bruce started but then gave up. It wasn't as if Tony had actually stopped talking.

"What I was _saying_ was how about instead of trying to make us process, we all tell you something good that happened during Christmas break so you can go down the list and check off that we're all not traumatized. I'll start." Tony straightened up, tugging at the hem of the shirt he wore to smooth down the front, and cleared his throat. "On Christmas Eve, I got to see Pepper's boobs."  
Natasha's attention snapped suddenly to him, and Clint wondered if he was going to have to restrain her... and if he would bother.

"Tony!" Mr. Coulson said. "That is _not_ appropriate."

"It's also not accurate," Loki said, "unless I missed something."

Tony screwed up his face. "It might be a slight exaggeration," he admitted. "But I got to sit next to her and I could kind of see down her shirt a little."

"That's _still_ not appropriate," Mr. Coulson said. 

"But it's still a good thing," Tony said. "Who's next?"

"I made a lot of cookies," Jessica volunteered, "and they didn't kill anyone."

"That's..." Mr. Coulson clearly didn't know what to say to that, and didn't quite know how to respond to the fact that they were all smiling and laughing about it.

"I didn't get into a fight with my father at the Christmas dinner table," Carol added, "for the first time in quite a few years."

"My father actually asked me how the play was going," Loki said. "Without prompting."

"I ended up staying with my grandparents again," Bruce said. "I never wanted to leave in the first place. They need me there as much as I need to be there." 

Clint wanted to ask if his father had turned up at all, but that would have opened a can of worms that it was pretty clear that they all, or at least Tony, was hell-bent on avoiding. "I went to a family gathering to make my foster parents happy, and it didn't completely suck," he said, to keep things going. "And it got me foster family brownie points."

"I go to party with Clint too," Natasha said. She looked down, frowning slightly like she was trying to think of something good that she could tell them had happened, and drawing a blank. But good things _had_ happened; she hadn't been unhappy the entire time. But maybe it was just that she couldn't think of anything she could say out loud that wouldn't be saying too much. "And then at New Year's party, we convince Jessica to dance, and for once she smiles and does not scowl."

Which, of course, made Jessica turn on her, her brows drawn together and her lips curled down. Natasha pursed her lips, her eyebrows up, as if to say, 'You see what I mean?' Which made Jessica scowl harder, which made Natasha smirk, and for a second Clint thought that it might go sour, but Carol leaned in and whispered something in Jessica's ear, and she rolled her eyes and made a face and relaxed. 

"Why isn't Pepper here?" she asked. "Shouldn't she be part of this, too?"

"Pepper had somewhere else she needed to be," Mr. Coulson said, but Clint thought maybe he was lying, and he just hadn't thought to invite her. But then, probably the last the social worker knew, Pepper and Tony couldn't be in the same room together, so he suspected that had something to do with it.

When had that changed, anyway? With the play? On Thanksgiving? Something had shifted and he'd missed it; maybe they all had. But the fact that she had let Tony close enough to her that he could, in fact, look down her shirt a little bit, was... something. Maybe it was just in the... not the heat of the moment, but the... hell, he didn't have the word for it. But Tony had needed someone to comfort him, to be solid for him, and Pepper had stepped up and done it, like Pepper always stepped up and did things. 

The meeting was interrupted a moment later by Mr. Fury's voice over the loudspeaker. "Attention all students and faculty: In light of the incoming inclement weather, we will be closing today at 11:00 am, to ensure that everyone has time to get home safely before the storm hits."

A quick glance around reminded them that there was no clock in the room, so there was a flurry of hands reaching into pockets and bags to pull out cell phones to check the time. Leaving at 11 meant they had less than an hour left.

"I guess I'd better send you back to class," Mr. Coulson said. "Let you get as much out of the day as you can."

For a second Clint considered trying to convince the social worker to just let them stay, spend the rest of the day here so he didn't have to deal with class, but in the end he kept his mouth shut. They gathered their things and headed out. 

"Wait," Tony said when they were out in the hall, before they'd had a chance to go their separate ways. "Everyone should come to my place."

"I have to work on my lines," Loki said, and took off before there could be any further discussion. 

"I have to go home to my grandparents," Bruce said. "Someone is going to have to shovel them out tomorrow."

"We'll send someone," Tony said. "There are services that do that."

"Services that cost money," Bruce said, "and you're not paying for it. Plus they're old, and someone needs to be there in case anything goes wrong."

"I'll... I'll come with you," Tony decided, but he sounded less sure. 

"There's nowhere for you to stay," Bruce said. "It'll be okay. Just... relax. Don't worry about it. It's one day. One night."

Clint shook his head. It was a good thing that Bruce had the patience of a saint, because if he had Tony all over him like that all the time, he was pretty sure that he would have lost it on him by now. But then, when Bruce lost his temper, he completely lost it, so maybe it wasn't that he was patient, just that he'd learned somewhere along the line how to rein it all in.

Clint's phone vibrated in his pocket, signaling that he'd received a text message. He pulled it out and saw it was from Mrs. Sullivan. He hadn't even known she knew how to text. She seemed like the sort of person who wasn't exactly on top of the latest technology, but then he'd never really paid attention. 

'You need to come home right after school,' it read. 'I'm picking up the boys. Don't drive anywhere you don't absolutely have to.' Before he could even start typing a response, he got another message from her. 'Yes, you have to come home. No, Natasha can't come with you.'

He snorted, shook his head, showed it to Natasha, who did the same. "I guess she knows you better than you think," she said. "She answer before even you can ask."

"Too bad," Clint said. "I would have liked to spend another snowstorm with you."

"Without having Thor to play-act my uncle," Natasha said. "They were not happy then."

"Well we did kind of manipulate the situation so they didn't really have a choice but to let you stay," Clint pointed out.

"We? Was _your_ idea."

Clint smirked. "And it was a good one, and it worked, and it..." _Kept you safe,_ he almost said, but stopped himself. Yes, it had kept her safe, for a little while, but then her uncle (quote unquote) had turned on her just when they'd started to think maybe he was going to let it go, and it had been ugly, except it had also been sort of the last straw, and it had pushed them into finally doing something about the whole situation, and that was good, right? If anything could be said to be good about any of it.

"Yes. It work, and was good," Natasha agreed. "Maybe next time. This will not be only storm, I am sure."

"I'm sure," Clint said, without much enthusiasm. "I guess I'll see you tomorrow then."

"I guess you will," Natasha replied, and pushed up onto her toes to kiss him lightly, since there was no one around to see.

 

But he didn't see her the next day, because school was canceled the next day. Mr. Sullivan still had to go to work, though, so Clint found himself out in temperatures that were well below freezing, helping him shovel so he could get the car free. His office wasn't opening until late, so they weren't in a huge hurry, but it was better to get it done earlier than later, and Clint had been awake anyway.

"I hope you're not upset that we asked you to come home, rather than going to one of your friends' yesterday," Mr. Sullivan said as they worked side by side, clearing the compacted snow left behind by the plow at the end of the driveway.

"It's fine," Clint said, and it was. Sure, he would have preferred to be with Natasha ,but that was basically a given. But he would see her tonight, maybe, or tomorrow, since they'd gotten to be pretty good about letting him be where he wanted on weekends. 

"I know it might be hard to understand, but she's – we're doing it to look out for you. She didn't want you driving all over when the roads might be bad, and we can't have Natasha staying here overnight."

Clint had heard the slip, and he probably should have let it go, but he didn't. "If it was up to you, would it be different?"

Mr. Sullivan was quiet for a few minutes, thinking it over maybe, or trying to figure out the right way to respond. "No," he said finally. "It wouldn't. Maybe my reasons wouldn't be exactly the same, but it would still be the same answer."

"Why?" Clint asked. "What would your reasons be?"

Silence again, but Clint was used to waiting for answers when conversations turned serious. "When you're a parent, but especially when you're a foster parent, you always have to have the worst case scenario in the back of your head, and you have to try to plan for it, have something in mind, something in place to mitigate it," Mr. Sullivan said. "You have to think ahead about how to minimize the damage if the worst happens."

"But—" Clint started. 

His foster father held up his hand. "I'm not done," he said. "With foster kids, worst case scenarios tend to come up more often than they might with a person's biological children. You don't always know the full story when they come into your house, into your life. Sometimes you still don't know it when they leave. You don't know where there buttons are, what's likely to set them off, what might shut them down or send them running. So you're always trying to figure that out. You also have to worry about perception, and how things could be interpreted, or misinterpreted. Which is, of course, true with people and their biological children as well, but with foster kids, if something comes up, it would be take the kid away first, ask questions later... and then maybe return them, or maybe not."

He stopped shoveling and looked at Clint. "We've had it happen before. There have been kids that we've really cared about who said things that were misinterpreted, and they were taken away, and we never got them back. Sometimes it turned out all right. Sometimes... they would have been better off if they'd stayed with us. And sometimes we never found out what happened. It doesn't happen often, but it _does_ happen. So even if nothing was going on between the two of you – you and Natasha – there's the issue of perception, how it would look to a social worker if they dropped by, how it would look to other people if they got wind of it. And there's the younger boys, and the fact that they might say something that could lead to a whole lot of trouble for everyone that none of us need. So whether you asked me or your m—Mrs. Sullivan, the answer would be the same." He paused, then asked, "Does that make sense?"

"It's bullshit," Clint said, "but yeah. It makes sense. But you let me go over there, stay there. That could be misinterpreted too."

"We do," Mr. Sullivan said, "and it could. But it's less likely to than if she stayed here. And it's not just you and what happens to you that we have to worry about. There is a chance, if someone decided to raise a stink about it, it wouldn't just be your placement here that was jeopardized, but all of the boys, and we can't take that chance. Connor's been here for most of his life. Think of what it would do to him if he was suddenly taken away."

Considering what it did to him if they tried to make him sit at a different spot at the dinner table, Clint didn't even really _want_ to think about what he would do if he was suddenly taken away from the people who were basically the only parents he'd ever known.

"With the situation with Natasha and Mr. Fury, it's a bit different. Or at least my understanding is that it's different. There are factors in play there that don't apply here that would protect her placement even if something came up."

"Yeah," Clint said. Considering that the FBI had had a role in putting her there, there was a good chance she wouldn't be taken away unless she asked to be. "I guess you're right."

"Which reminds me. I'm supposed to have a talk with you about being responsible."

"Oh god," Clint groaned. "Please don't."

Mr. Sullivan laughed. "I won't. I trust that you're being careful... and not just about the stuff they teach you in sex ed. There's more to it than that, more to being in a relationship, especially an intimate one. And I think a lot of times kids aren't told about those aspects of things, but every time I tried to think about what I should say to you about that, I just kept coming back to that night when Mr. Fury came here and asked us to let you stay with Natasha for the night, because her world had been turned upside down and the thing that she wanted most to comfort her and get her through that transition was you. And all I could think was, 'What can I say that he doesn't already know?' If a girl who has obviously been through things that no one should ever go through – and I don't know details, but I think I can make a pretty good guess – specifically asks to have you there with her, because she feels safe with you... and I see the way you look at her, and the way she looks at you. I know if you could prevent it, you would stop anything from ever hurting her, and vice versa... I think you've probably already got the respect and responsibility thing figured out, when it comes down to how to treat someone that you love. I think there's probably things the pair of you have already figured out that plenty of people never learn. So I'm not going to give you 'the talk', as such. Just know that if you ever _do_ want or need to talk, I'm here."

Clint didn't know what to say to that. Should he say thank you? 

But Mr. Sullivan didn't linger over it. "When we're done here, we'll go inside, get some breakfast and some coffee, and then I would recommend going down to Mrs. Baker's down the street. She's got a bad back and can't shovel herself out, but she's happy to pay neighborhood kids to do it for her, and she's always up early, so I would grab the chance while I could if you're looking for some extra gas money."

Now that was easy to respond to. "I will definitely do that," Clint said. "Thanks."

Mr. Sullivan smiled at him. "Any time."


	28. Chapter 28

"Clinton? Can I talk to you for a moment?" Mrs. Sullivan asked as he tried to retreat upstairs after dinner on Friday. 

He really wished she would stop using his full first name. No one called him Clinton. Ever. At least she'd never rolled out the full first-middle-last number; then he really would have known he was in trouble. But he wasn't in trouble, was he? He'd been outside pretty much all day, going from one neighbor to another, shoveling for anyone who was willing to pay him. There were even a few who had snowblowers they'd let him use, just so they didn't have to be the ones out in the cold. He'd made a decent amount of money; good for a couple of weeks of gas at least. So what could he have done?

He went back into the kitchen, opening the dishwasher to empty it so there would be a place to put the dirty ones after they'd been rinsed. (Why they had to wash the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher he still hadn't figured out.) It gave him something to do other than stand there awkwardly. "Yeah?"

"We need to ask you to do us a big favor," she said. "Our usual babysitter called earlier to say that she wasn't going to be able to watch the boys on Sunday. She's recovering from the flu, and she doesn't want to risk bringing any germs over here. We tried getting someone else, but it seems that everyone is either busy or, well..." 

The sound of a shout, then a crash, followed by more shouting came from upstairs as if to finish her sentence for her. 

"I'm on it," Mr. Sullivan said, cutting through the kitchen to go upstairs to see what was going on (and make sure nothing and no one was broken). 

"Unfortunately, it's not something that we can reschedule, so we have to find _someone_ to watch them." She looked at him expectantly, and a little apologetically, and it suddenly clicked why she was telling him all this.

"You want _me_ to watch them?" he asked. "I don't know anything about watching kids!"

"You worked at a summer camp all summer," Mrs. Sullivan pointed out. "I would think you might have learned _something_ about watching children there."

"Yeah, but I was supervised," Clint said, a bit lamely.

"I wouldn't ask if I thought we had any other options. It's only for a few hours. We're really in a bind. We would pay you what we normally pay the babysitter; it doesn't seem fair not to when we'd already budgeted the money." Mrs. Sullivan said it all calmly, like it was no big deal, but Clint wasn't sure if she was trying to convince him or herself. He doubted that she _wanted_ to leave the boys alone with him; he didn't exactly have a great track record with patience where they were concerned. 

And he could use the money. "You said this was tomorrow?"

"No, Sunday."

Clint rubbed the back of his neck and frowned. "Sunday I—"

"I know that you usually go over to see Natasha on Sunday," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I'm asking you to skip one week."

"It's not just Natasha," Clint said. "Carol comes over and the four of us usually study together. And we've got midterms coming up! Next week. This is the last chance we have."

Now Mrs. Sullivan was frowning. How could she argue with him about wanting to go to a study group? And she didn't seem to assume that he was lying about it, either, which was something. "Can you reschedule it?" she asked. "Have it tomorrow instead of Sunday?"

"I don't think Carol can," Clint said. "She's the one who's actually, like, a registered tutor or whatever." No need to mention that she was really Jessica's tutor... and that she wasn't actually acting in any kind of official capacity anymore. They helped each other where they could, and that was what mattered. 

She sighed. "Let me see if there's anyone else," she said. 

Clint thought he'd won, and he breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn't that he didn't like the younger boys... it was just that he didn't like the younger boys. Devon and Kevin especially were at that age where all kids just turned into little shitheads, and the last thing he wanted to deal with was their attitudes about everything. And Connor... you never knew what might send Connor flying off the handle or spiraling into a meltdown. 

No way did he want to be the ringmaster of that circus. 

But the next morning, Mrs. Sullivan brought it up again. "Look, Clinton—"

"Clint," he said. "You can just call me Clint."

"Clint," she said. "I've called everyone I can think of who might possibly be available, and gotten nowhere. It's just for the latter part of the afternoon and evening. Are you _sure_ there's no way you can maybe change the time that you study, maybe move it up earlier in the day?"

He wasn't sure. He hadn't asked. He didn't _want_ to ask. But he also didn't want to destroy what little goodwill he'd built up with his foster parents, Mrs. Sullivan especially. "Maybe," he said. "I guess I can try."

"If that doesn't work," Mrs. Sullivan said, "you could invite them to come here instead of meeting at Mr. Fury's." It was clear that she didn't like the idea very much. It meant three extra people in her house while she wasn't there, two of which she really didn't know at all, and a babysitter who would potentially be distracted from his primary focus of watching the boys. He was sure she was imagining all kinds of horrible movie-of-the-week scenarios.

"If you did that," Mr. Sullivan added, "at least you'd have them outnumbered." He winked when Clint looked at him, and leaned down to kiss the top of his wife's head as she shot him an exasperated glare.

"There's that, too," she admitted. "It might not be the worst idea to have reinforcements. Especially since you can't always hear when they get up to something, if it's upstairs."

"I'll talk to Natasha," Clint said. "Can I still go there today, as long as I'm back in time tomorrow?" He hadn't actually asked them if he could go over, but it was pretty much what happened every weekend, so he'd figured it was safe enough to assume it would be all right.

"Yes," Mrs. Sullivan said. 

"And if we end up meeting to study earlier, can Natasha still come over to help out?" he asked, knowing he might be pressing his luck.

Mrs. Sullivan opened her mouth like she was going to say something, probably no, but then she looked at Mr. Sullivan, silently asking if he was all right with it.

"I don't see why not," Mr. Sullivan said. 

"Just let us know so we can plan ahead," Mrs. Sullivan said. "We'll have to make sure there's something to make for everyone for dinner."

"We usually have pizza," Clint said. "Pizza we make," he added quickly, knowing she would object to the cost. "The boys love it, and maybe it'll keep them out of trouble for a little while helping make it."

This time when Mrs. Sullivan sighed, it was with relief, like a weight had been lifted from her shoulders. "In that case, let me know what you'll need to put on it, and I'll make sure to get it at the store when I go later."

"Will do," Clint said. 

 

_You volunteered us to do **what**?_ , Natasha asked. _Are you crazy?_

_I didn't really get a choice,_ Clint said. _Not unless I wanted to start World War III or something. It won't be so bad... probably. They're not **complete** monsters._

_Just wait until you tell Jessica,_ Natasha signed. _Her head might explode._

It didn't, but she was obviously less than thrilled with the prospect. "How are we going to get any studying done when we've got a bunch of rugrats crawling all over us and wanting things?" she asked.

"They're not that young," Clint said. "Devon's... twelvish, or thirteen. Kevin's ten, I think? And Connor is seven or eight or something. If we just stick them in front of the TV with their video games, they should be all right." He hoped.

"Nice of you to ask _before_ you sign us up," Jessica grumbled, but she didn't say she wouldn't come. 

The only one who didn't seem bothered by the idea was Carol, but Clint got the feeling that she wasn't bothered by much, or at least when she was she hid it well. And since they were giving her the bad news over the phone, he couldn't see her face to know if it was telling a different story than the tone of her voice. "I've got younger brothers," she told him. "I know how these things go."

"At least one of us does," Clint said, only half-joking. Less than half. A quarter joking, maybe.

So he went back to the Sullivans after lunch on Sunday, Natasha and Jessica in tow, and Carol arrived a little bit later. He'd made sure to have her come over before the Sullivans left, figuring that it might help put Mrs. Sullivan's mind at ease if she had a chance to meet Jess and Carol before she left. 

"Thank you again," Carol said, after he'd introduced her to his foster mother, "for what you did on Christmas, bringing us coffee and everything. That was amazing."

"You're welcome," Mrs. Sullivan said, smiling at her. "It was the least I could do." Then she turned her attention back to Clint. "You have our numbers, and there are other numbers on the fridge in case of emergency. Obviously if there's a real emergency, dial 911. I've got a list here of the medications everyone needs at bedtime. No later than 8:30 for Connor, 9 for the older boys. They know it, and don't let them fight you on it. We may be back before then, but I can't guarantee it. Connor knows his routine, so once you get him started he should be fine. One chapter, two if they're short ones."

"I can't—"

"I can," Carol said, nudging him. "I like reading out loud. I get to do all the voices." She grinned. 

"Try to limit their TV and video game time, convince them to go outside, maybe, while it's still light out," Mrs. Sullivan continued. "They don't have any homework, so you don't need to worry about that, but maybe see if you can get them to do half an hour of reading before they turned anything electronic on." She looked over at the counter where she'd left a few other notes and lists. "Call us if you need anything."

"I will," Clint said. He hoped he wouldn't have to. He hoped that this would all go smoothly, without any disasters... but he didn't hold his breath. Blue wasn't his best color.

Finally the Sullivans left, leaving the four of them with the three boys. 

"I'm getting my DS," Devon said.

"Me too," Kevin added.

"My three!" Connor chimed in.

"No you're not," Clint said. "You're going outside."

"It's too cold to go outside," Devon complained.

"Not if you run around," Carol pointed out. 

"I'll go outside," Kevin said, because Kevin would go outside in pretty much any weather. 

"Can we build a snowman?" Connor asked.

"I'm not sure it's the right kind of snow for that," Carol said, "but we can try."

"I'm not going out there," Jessica grumbled. "It's too cold."

"Is not that cold," Natasha said. "Is almost freezing. Come on."

"Aren't we supposed to study?"

"I'll teach you about physics," Carol said. "Force and trajectory." She wiggled her eyebrows and started to pull her coat back on.

Somehow they got everyone outside, and Carol did, in fact, try to teach them about physics, specifically as they applied to snowball fights. Natasha filled them in on European History and why you didn't attempt to conquer Russia over land in winter, and Clint tried to remember some famous American battles that involved forts and fortifications. Jessica mostly grumbled, until she realized that there was a perfect climbing tree in the backyard, and made her way up it to stage an aerial assault.

Clint wasn't sure how long they were out there, but it was long enough for all of them to be chilled to the bone, their cheeks flushed and noses running, dampness soaking their clothes from the inside out as well as the other way around. 

"Everything into the dryer," Jessica said. "Drop as much as you can here but leave yourselves decent because there are things I absolutely do not need to see and naked little boys—"

"I'm _not_ a little boy!" Devon protested.

"—isn't one of them," she finished. "Then bring down anything that's wet and we'll dry it all so it doesn't drip everywhere."

"Good thinking," Clint said. She shrugged.

Natasha went upstairs and grabbed pajama pants from Clint's drawers, some of hers and some of his, to give them things to put on so that their jeans could be thrown in the dryer too, since the girls hadn't brought clothing for snow with them. She got dry socks while she was at it, and they all skidded around the kitchen a bit as they tried to get themselves situated.

"I will make hot chocolate," Natasha said. "Yes?"

"Uh... they might get a little hyper," Clint said. "Sugar and all."

"They just run around for an hour, maybe more. I think maybe it will be okay."

Clint wasn't so sure, but he didn't stop her, even when whipped cream and sprinkles came into play. He just made sure that they stayed at the table while they drank it so it didn't end up spilled on the couch or the carpet or something.

"What are you doing?" Kevin asked as Carol and Jessica began to pull out books. "Homework?"

"Yes," Carol said. "We have midterms to study for."

"Sucks to be you," Devon replied, slurping the whipped cream off the top of his cocoa and managing to get it on his nose in the process. 

Rather than going to get a seventh chair (there were normally only six at the table) Natasha perched herself on Clint's knee. He wrapped his arm around her waist so she didn't slide off.

"Ooooh!" Connor said. "Clinton's got a _girl_ friend." He wiggled in his seat, squirming up so that he was on his knees.

"Sit on your a— butt," Clint said. But of course Connor didn't listen.

"Clinton and Na _tash_ a, sittin' in a tree. K-I-S-S-I-N-G!"

"Do people still sing that?" Carol muttered, rolling her eyes.

"First comes love, then comes marriage, then comes N—"

" _Clinton_ with the baby carriage!" Devon finished for him. 

"Why does Clinton have the baby carriage?" Kevin asked.

"Because he's _way_ more of a girl than Natasha," Devon explained. "Duh."

At that Carol's eyebrows shot up. "Excuse me? What was that?"

Devon looked at her, his eyes narrowing. "What was what?"

"I just want to make sure I was hearing you correctly, because it sounded like you just called Clint a girl, meaning for it to be an insult. And that is absolutely not a cool thing to say, ever. One, you shouldn't insult people in the first place. If you don't like them, just ignore them. Two, if you have to insult someone, then use a word that could apply to anyone. Calling someone a girl, or gay, or a retard, or anything else that describes a group of people, implying that that group of people is somehow inferior, is unacceptable, and it says a lot more about the kind of person _you_ are than the person that you're insulting."

"Не будь капусты," Natasha said in the silence that descended.

"What?" Jessica asked.

"Don't be such a cabbage," she translated. "In English, you say, 'Don't be a girl,' when you think someone is acting in a way that is beneath what you expect of them, in a way that is emotional. In Russian, we call someone who is being too emotional a cabbage."

Connor laughed. "Don't be a cabbage!"

"That doesn't even make sense," Devon said.

"Maybe not," Natasha said, "but who would like to be cabbage? No one likes cabbage."

Devon made a face, clearly not impressed by this logic, but he didn't say anything more about it... probably because he knew that if he did he would have to forfeit his hot cocoa and get sent to his room or something. 

After they'd finished their cocoa, Clint let them run off to play video games or watch TV. He would worry about trying to get them to read later, maybe. They'd already lost a couple of hours, and he really did need to study if he wanted to stand any chance of passing his midterms.

"So what does everyone have?" Carol asked as they spread out their books. "At least you three are all in the same grade so we're not trying to cover _too_ many different subjects." Which was true, up to a point, but their strengths differed, and where trigonometry might be completely transparent to one of them, it was as clear as mud to another. So they tried to figure out who could work with who on what to make the most of the time they had.

It was Kevin who finally interrupted them, coming right up to Clint and sticking his face between Clint and his book. "When's dinner?" he demanded.

"When did you last brush your teeth?" Clint asked, gagging. "It smells like something crawled in there and died."

Kevin grinned, revealing teeth that very likely _hadn't_ been brushed at any point that day. "When's dinner?" he asked again.

"In an hour," Jessica said. 

"An hour? That's, like, _forever_ ," Kevin whined.

She rolled her eyes. "Well it's not going to get done any faster with you complaining about it," she said. 

"Maybe not whole hour," Natasha said. "Anyway, go get others. You can help."

Jessica looked at her like she'd lost her mind. "We are _not_ letting them _help_ ," she said. "Do you know what kind of mess kids can make when you let them near food?"

"Yes," Natasha said. "But it will keep them from getting in trouble. Go," she repeated to Kevin. "Unless you do not want pizza."

"PIZZA!" He tore off upstairs.  
Carol rubbed her ear. "That's all right, I didn't need that eardrum anyway," she muttered. 

The boys were back downstairs a few minutes later, Kevin and Connor at a charge, Devon sauntering behind him like he didn't care what they were doing and didn't want any part of it... but his presence proved otherwise.

"Now," Natasha said, "there is ball of dough for each of you, so everyone can have pizza all their own, with whatever you want on it." She took charge of getting the pans ready, and showing them how to stretch the dough into the pan, while Jessica and Carol got the toppings ready. Clint stretched out the dough for the other pizza, since one wasn't going to be enough to feed the four of them. 

It felt like a miracle that they managed to get the food in the oven without anyone having a tantrum or stomping off, and even more so when the boys not only ate their dinner without getting into any fights, but even helped clean up afterward. He decided then and there that he wasn't going to try and get them to read after all, because things were going too smoothly and he wasn't willing to rock the boat. 

Carol took charge of Connor at bedtime, and was just coming back downstairs from reading to him when the Sullivans got home.

"How did it go?" Mrs. Sullivan asked immediately, looking around to make sure that the house wasn't a shambles.

"Better than I thought," Clint said, "mostly thanks to them." He gestured to Natasha, Carol, and Jessica. "If it'd been just me, it would've been a disaster, I'm pretty sure."

"Well I'm glad they were here, then," she said. "Connor's in bed?"

"Not asleep," Carol admitted, "but yeah, he's in bed."

"That's all right," Mrs. Sullivan told her. "The other two are still up?"

"Yeah. They're fed, though, and kitchen's clean. We went outside for a while, had a snowball fight, no one got hurt or ended up screaming." Clint shrugged. 

"Thank you," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I really appreciate it." She reached into her purse and pulled out her wallet, handing money to each of them. "It's less than you would have gotten if there were fewer of you," she said apologetically, "but—"

"I didn't expect anything," Carol said, "so thank you."

"Yeah, thank you," Jess echoed. 

"I guess we should probably go," Carol said. "I think I've had about all the studying I can take for one day."

"All right," Clint said. "Are you...?" He inclined his head at Jess. 

"Jess, you want me to drive you home?"

"Yeah," Jessica said. "Thanks."

Even though it would have made sense for Carol to take Natasha home, too, she didn't offer and Natasha didn't volunteer. Clint would take her home; it would give them a little time together, away from everyone else, which was pretty rare.

When they were gone, Devon came out. "The blonde one yelled at me," he said. 

Mrs. Sullivan's eyebrows went up, and she looked at Clint.

"She didn't yell," he said. "She just told him that calling someone a girl wasn't an insult."

"Well, it's not," Mrs. Sullivan said. "So I'm going to side with her on that one." 

"But—" Devon started, then must have decided against whatever he was going to say, because he just crossed his arms and stormed off. 

"Is that all it was, really?"

"Basically," Clint said. "She definitely wasn't yelling, anyway."

"All right," his foster mother said. "I'll worry about it later then. Why don't you take Natasha home?"

"Yeah, okay," Clint said. "Be back soon." He waited for Natasha to get her things, then took her on the scenic route home. They rode in silence, and after an afternoon filled with voices, it was the most beautiful sound in the world.


	29. Chapter 29

_I'm not moving and you can't make me,_ Clint signed, grinning up at Natasha. They'd found a place in one of the hallways that wasn't being used during midterms so Natasha could do some last minute studying, but all Clint really wanted to do was sleep. He hadn't slept well the night before, and he'd woken up late enough that he hadn't even had time to get coffee. He had his head in her lap while she balanced her history book on her knee. 

_You're going to have to move soon,_ she told him. _Tests are going to start in a few minutes._

 _I don't wanna,_ he replied, drawing out the signs as if he was whining. _Who needs high school?_

 _We do,_ Natasha said, closing the book and stroking her thumb over his temple. _Sorry._  
Clint sighed and pushed himself to sitting. His head swam, and he blinked hard, trying to clear the spots of light that formed at the edges of his vision. He stayed on the floor even as Natasha stood up, until she held out her hand to him to tug him up. _You okay?_ , she asked, forehead furrowed.

 _I didn't eat,_ he admitted. _And no coffee._

 _I should have brought you some,_ she said. _We can see—_

But the bell cut her off, signaling that it was time for them to head to their respective testing rooms. She squeezed his hand before they parted and signed, _Good luck._

_You too._

As Clint sat down, he was pretty sure that he was going to need a lot more than luck. It was like everything that they'd reviewed on Sunday, and Monday, and yesterday had flown right out of his head and for a second he wasn't even sure what test he was supposed to be taking. 

But when the paper was set in front of him, he was relieved to discover that it was math. Math was one of his better subjects, even though he wasn't sure when he'd ever need to calculate the area of a rhombus in real life, or the volume of a cone, but at least it was concrete. There was nothing subjective about it, nothing open to interpretation. And he managed, somehow, to remember enough to scrape by. He would pass, if nothing else, and maybe even get a good enough grade to keep his teachers and the Sullivans and Mr. Coulson and everyone else off his back.

When the test period was over, he got up and left the room, going to find Natasha. She was frowning, and when he got close enough she grabbed his sleeve and hauled him toward the door. 

_Where are we going?_ , he asked.

 _Out,_ she said. _You need food._

_You okay?_

_I hate essay questions,_ she replied, and didn't elaborate. 

They got into his car and he drove where she told him, half in words and half in sign, depending on whether it was safe for him to look at her or not. "Park here," she instructed.

It took Clint a minute to recognize where they were, where she was taking him. She hesitated for a minute, then led him past the Chinese restaurant where they'd had their first not-a-date (because she'd insisted it wasn't one, and he didn't understand until much later that she'd said it to try to put him off, to try to protect him) to the coffee shop that they'd gone to after. 

Fortified with coffee and food, they sat in the same corner they had then. Clint watched Natasha and the tension all through her, and reached out after a little while and touched her knee, his eyebrows raised.

 _Sometimes I just get sick of having to fight through words, language, to say what I want to say,_ she told him finally. _It's exhausting when you know what you want to say, but the words aren't in the language you need them to be in, and the words that you know in the right language don't mean the same._

Clint wished he could say he understood, but he didn't really. He only spoke English and ASL (well, he didn't _speak_ ASL, but that was kind of beside the point). He'd never really thought about how hard it must have been for her to have to learn English, and then ASL on top of it, and then to continually have to translate things back in forth. Did she still think in Russian? He thought sometimes she spoke it in her sleep, and he wondered if it had become the language of nightmares for her.

 _It's better than last year, at least,_ she said. _European history was harder, because not only had I been taught a lot of it in Russia, in Russian, but it's a very different story, what we learned there and what you are taught here. So not only did the language betray me, but everything I'd been taught I was now being told was wrong._ She sighed. _I think probably it's a different story all over again in the countries where it happened, and the truth is likely somewhere in the middle of it all. And they don't want you to think, do you?_ She didn't wait for him to answer. _They just want you to repeat back to them what they've told you is right, even if you don't agree. So on top of having to fight with the words, I also have to make sure that they're the words that the teacher wants to hear._

He'd never really thought about it. He'd just always assumed that that was the point of school – to remember what the teacher said long enough to pass the test or write the paper, and then move on. It wasn't like he was ever going to use any of it later in life. Really, it seemed like school was basically just a holding pen, a place for kids to go while their parents were working, that maybe taught them a thing or two along the way. But once you knew how to read, write, add and subtract, the rest of it was just sort of... superfluous. Wasn't it?

But Natasha was smart, and maybe she could actually use some of what she learned. She would go to college, probably, and do something great with her life. She could; he knew she could. Look at what she'd already accomplished, and she was only sixteen.

What had he done? What was he ever going to do? He wasn't smart. He wasn't good at anything but archery, really, and that wasn't exactly a life skill that was going to get him anywhere unless maybe there was a zombie apocalypse. When he thought about the future, he mostly just thought about not having to live with the Sullivans, about having a place with Natasha where they didn't have to follow anyone else's rules, about the picture she'd painted for him in words one night over the phone when he was the one falling apart. But how likely was that, really?

Eventually she was going to figure out that he wasn't anyone special. Eventually she would find someone else smarter, better, who wasn't already a washed-up circus has-been before the age of eighteen. Eventually she would realize that she didn't need him anymore, that she was just as strong – stronger maybe – without him, and he was just a reminder of times that she said she wanted to remember but would probably be better off forgetting.

And then he'd lose her. 

"Clint?" Natasha reached out and touched his hand. _Where are you?_

 _I don't know,_ he told her. 

_Nowhere good, from the look on your face._

_No,_ he agreed. _Nowhere good._

 _Come here._ She tugged him forward, wrapping her arms around him and hugging him tight. She murmured something against his neck that he couldn't quite understand, and pressed a kiss to the hollow behind his ear, then to his temple. _It will be over soon._

Clint was sure she meant the words to be reassuring, but then she probably assumed that he was stressed out about midterms. Maybe he was. Maybe it was just that, and lack of sleep, and the food and coffee still making its way into his bloodstream. Maybe it was the cold and the lack of sunlight. He wasn't used to it; the circus had always gone south in the winter.

 _I know,_ he said. _But then it just starts all over again._

She wrinkled her nose. _Don't remind me._ She let her forehead rest against his for a moment longer, then let him go. _We should probably go back. Do you have a test this afternoon?_

He shook his head. _I'll wait for you, though. I'll study in the library or something._

 _You don't have to,_ Natasha said. _Go home. Relax. I can get a ride home with Mr. Fury._

 _I don't mind,_ Clint said. _Maybe the auditorium will be open and I can go work on the sets._

_Are you sure?_

Clint tried to make light of it. _Have I ever passed up an opportunity to be with you?_

She smiled crookedly. _Fine._

 _See you after._ He watched her go into the testing room again, then headed for the library even though he knew that he wasn't going to study. There was no way he could focus. He passed the auditorium and even though he knew it was probably futile, he tried the door.

It didn't budge. 

He told himself to keep walking, to go at least attempt to be a responsible student, but now that he'd gotten it into his head that maybe he could work out, or at least forget about, some of the things in his head by banging on pieces of wood, he couldn't shake it. So he tried all of the doors, and when he found that they were all locked, reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet, where he kept a few little bits of wire, just in case.

The lock was old and it didn't take long for him to feel the tumblers shift as it gave way. He slipped inside, closing it behind him. The supply closet in the back was supposed to be locked, but someone had forgotten... possibly him, but he was pretty sure there were still people stashing stuff in there when he left after the last rehearsal before midterms.

He got out tools and went to work, switching off his hearing aids even though he knew he shouldn't, in case someone came to find out what the noise was. He just wanted to be alone, and there was pretty much nothing more alone than being wrapped in his own cocoon of silence. Anyway, there was hardly anyone around. What were the chances that anyone was going to come out this way? No one had any tests in this wing.

He lost himself in the work, and started thinking that maybe this was something he could do, something constructive (no pun intended) that he could do with his future. Maybe he could talk to Carol, see if maybe her father was looking for help. Not right now, but for the summer. Put some time in, learn how to really build things instead of the spit and twine and hope that he'd learned to work with in the circus. There was always demand for construction people, wasn't there? He didn't know what the money was like, but if Carol's father supported a family of five (if he remembered correctly) on it then it couldn't be too bad. Enough to take care of himself and Natasha, anyway, probably. 

And it didn't require him to be smart. He just needed to be able to follow directions and keep out of trouble, and he'd gotten to be pretty good at that lately. So yeah, maybe that was the way to go...

He yelped and nearly smashed his thumb with a hammer when a hand clamped down on his shoulder. He turned to look and saw Pepper glaring down at him, looking both terrified and furious as her eyes darted around, then fixed on him again. She was saying something but he couldn't hear what. He held his hands up in surrender, then switched his hearing aids back on. "Sorry."

"Sorry? _Sorry?_ " Pepper crossed her arms. "You should be a lot more than _sorry_. You could get in trouble. You could get _me_ in trouble. How did you even—" But she stopped, frowned, probably remembering the time last year when they'd gotten locked in the auditorium and he'd gotten them out. "Don't drag me down with your delinquency," she said. "If anyone caught you in here, it would be my head on the chopping block, you know. I could lose my position."

"I'm sorry," Clint said. "I didn't think."

"No, you obviously didn't," she snapped. "I mean, I _do_ appreciate you putting in the extra time and effort to try and get things done as we get to the home stretch here, but we're _really_ not supposed to be in where without some kind of faculty advisor, and what if something had happened? What if you'd hurt yourself and no one knew where you were? You could put the whole program in jeopardy if your parents decided to sue the school or something for negligence!"

"They wouldn't do that," Clint said. He was pretty sure they wouldn't, anyway. They would understand that accidents happen, and it's not like they wouldn't believe that he'd gone in without permission. 

"Maybe not," Pepper said, "but it's still... it's not a good idea. Especially since you don't have a key. I don't think the school would look too kindly on breaking and entering, even if it's for a good cause. I know that you have a good rapport with Principal Fury and maybe you could get away with it, but it's not right to take chances with other people's future like that."

Clint sighed. "Sorry," he said again. "I just... needed to get away."

Pepper sighed. "I know. It just gets to be too much after a while," she said. She sat down on the edge of the stage, swinging her feet into the pit. 

"What do you have to worry about?" Clint asked. "I'm sure you nail all of your tests."

"Because I study," Pepper said. "Do you think it all just comes naturally? I have to study or I might fail, and then where would I be?"

Clint was pretty sure that Pepper's definition of failure was quite a bit different from his own, but he wasn't going to argue with her about it. But apparently he couldn't avoid poking her buttons completely, because he asked, "If it stresses you out so much, why do you do so much?"

"I have to," Pepper said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. "I want to go to a good college, and good grades aren't enough. You have to show that you're motivated, involved, well-rounded. You have to show diverse interests, involvement in your community... it's not enough to just be smart."

"Oh," Clint said. "So... you just do it because it'll make you look good on paper?"

Pepper looked at him, her forehead furrowing. "No! Of course not! I wouldn't do it if it was something that I hated; that would just be stupid. But sometimes you have to put up with a little bit of stress and frustration to be able to get where you want to go in life."

"Right," Clint said, wishing he'd never asked. "Well, you do a good job."

"Thank you," Pepper said. "I try. Sometimes I think that I've bitten off more than I can chew, though, especially with the play. I think maybe next year I won't do it, but then how will that look, if I give up something that I've dedicated so much time and effort to in my senior year. Will it look like I'm slacking off, that when I make a commitment I don't see it through all the way to the end? But it's such a huge commitment I worry that I might have to pass up other opportunities. It's like you're damned if you do and you're damned if you don't."

"But do you _like_ doing it?" Clint asked. "Working on the play? Is it just a job, or do you like doing it?"

Pepper opened her mouth, then closed it, frowning. 

"Maybe that's what you should think about," Clint suggested, "for next year. I mean, you're only young once, right? You've got your whole life to be serious and to work your ass off. Maybe you should cut yourself a little slack and do something you like doing instead of what you think you should do."

She looked away, looked around at the theater. "Maybe," she allowed, but she didn't sound convinced. "We should probably get out of here."

"Let me just put this stuff away," Clint said. He didn't want to leave, but he didn't want to get Pepper (or anyone else) in trouble, either. He gathered up the tools and returned them to the storage room, and followed Pepper out. She locked the door behind them, testing it to make sure that it had, in fact, locked, like she was afraid that he might have damaged it when he broke in.

"I'll see you later," Pepper said. 

"Yeah, later," Clint said, but he didn't think Pepper was listening. He made his way back to the testing room, sitting on the floor outside to wait for Natasha and pretending not to notice the glares of teachers as they walked past and saw him there. 

He rested his forehead on his knees, wrapping his arms over them and trying to just make his mind blank. Because the conversation he'd had with Pepper had made him realized just how inadequate he was, and how much of a plan he didn't have. 

He didn't notice that the test had let out until he felt Natasha's arm slide around his shoulders. He looked up at her and she stroked the back of his neck. "Ready?" she asked.

He nodded and let her pull him up for the second time that day. It felt like a metaphor, and he tried not to pin too much hope on the fact that even after he was on his feet she didn't let go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a head's up that I may be a bit slow responding to any comments left (but please, please leave them!) because I am actually at a convention so I'm mostly not on the internet at all this weekend. I brought my laptop pretty much just so I could post this chapter, because I love you. ♥


	30. Chapter 30

Returning to school after midterms and a long weekend was hard. It was too early, too dark, too cold to be up and moving and expected to learn anything. His head hurt just thinking about it, and he's overslept again because his phone had slipped off his bed so he hadn't felt the alarm vibrating, and Mrs. Sullivan had been busy dealing with Connor having a meltdown and Devon and Kevin fighting over something stupid as usual, and he'd actually thought for a second that she was going to swear at him when she finally came upstairs to wake him up. She hadn't, but he was bracing himself for a lecture when he got home.

He made it to homeroom on time, barely, but he had to run straight there and didn't even get to see Natasha. He tried to focus on what the teacher was saying, he really did, but his mind kept wandering to the future, and running into brick walls there, until he was ready to crawl out of his own skin or run screaming from the room or anything to get out of himself.

At least Natasha was in his next class. She handed him a travel mug as he slid into his seat beside her. _I don't know if it's still warm,_ she apologized.

_I don't really care,_ he replied. _Thank you._

She smiled, and that eased some of the tightness in his chest, just a little. _Of course,_ she told him. _What are friends for?_

He sipped the coffee (which was lukewarm) and managed to make it through class without flipping out. When they were released back into the halls, he was tempted – very tempted – to take Natasha's hand and just drag her out one of the doors. They could drive off, just go anywhere. Who would stop them? They would come back... probably... but for a little while they could be free. 

When had they stopped doing that? When had they become such law-abiding citizens? The fact that Natasha lived with Principal Fury was certainly a factor, and the fact that he didn't want to piss off the Sullivans too badly because he did still need a place to stay, but what was one day? Even just a period or two; they could come back at lunchtime. 

But the delinquency train was derailed by Tony coming up, barging his way between them, and waving a piece of paper in their faces. "Did you get a pass?" he asked.

Natasha fell back half a step and reappeared on Clint's other side, putting him in the middle as they walked three abreast. "From Mr. Coulson?" she asked.

"Who else?" Tony asked. "Do you have regular dates with anyone else in this school?"

Clint shook his head. "I didn't."

"I didn't either," Natasha said. "Usually we meet on Wednesday."

"Usually," Tony said. "Great. I hope he doesn't want to have some kind of one-on-one, tete-a-tete, mano e mano kind of thing, because I'm really not in the mood. I'm over it, you know? I've processed it, gotten through it. It's done, finished, over with. I've moved on."

Clint was pretty sure that he was talking about Bruce, and Christmas vacation, and he was also pretty sure that he was lying. But there was only so much good that talking could do, especially when you were talking with someone that you maybe didn't want to talk with. Someone who, no matter how hard he tried, couldn't really understand what it was like for them, any of them. Yeah, he'd been a kid once, and probably dealt with a lot of kids with a lot of problems, and yeah, he'd handled the situation with Natasha as well as probably anyone could, but still.

"Maybe is nothing," Natasha said. "Maybe is mistake."

Tony rolled his eyes. "Mr. Coulson doesn't make mistakes."

The bell rang, warning them that they only had a minute to get to class. Tony took off, while Clint risked detention walking Natasha the rest of the way to class, still tempted but now basically out of time to make a run for it, before heading to his own. He walked in a little after the bell, and was given a stern look and a pass. Clint looked at it and wasn't sure whether to be worried or relieved. Tony wasn't going to be alone after all; it had just taken a little longer for his pass to catch up with him.

When he got to the social worker's office, he saw that it was everyone who had been summoned, all the usual suspects. Jessica and Carol were there, but after a quick word with Mr. Coulson, Carol left. Clint turned his head, then looked at Jessica curiously, figuring maybe she would know.

"She has to tutor someone," Jessica said, looking slightly annoyed about it. "I don't see why she has to give up her lunch to do it."

"I don't see why I have to give up my lunch to do this," Loki said from his corner, his arms crossed over his chest, long legs sprawled out in front of him to take up far more room than he had any right to. It forced anyone who wanted to get to the other side of the room to step over his feet, and Clint wondered if it was his intention to trip anyone who attempted it. 

Mr. Coulson came in a minute later, after they were all settled and digging in to their lunches, conversations being held in full-mouthed mumbles (except in Clint and Natasha's case, because they could talk without their mouths, but still generally didn't when the others were around, mostly because they didn't want to be interrupted with questions or demands to teach someone what still felt, to them, like their own secret language). 

"Thank you all for coming in," he said. "I just wanted to get everyone together to see how midterms went."

"Good," everyone said (or fine or okay or a shrug, but it all amounted to the same thing). They hadn't gotten their midterm grades yet in some classes, but the ones that they had gotten, Clint at least had been somewhat pleasantly surprised with the results. Things he'd thought had been a disaster had turned out to be good enough to earn him B's, which was all he really aimed for anyway. 

"That's good," Mr. Coulson said. "That's great. Did everyone have a good long weekend?"

More nods and mumbles of assent, but no one seemed inclined to say much about it, in part because as far as Clint knew no one had done anything particularly exciting, but mostly because it was pretty clear form the way that the questions were being asked and the way that Mr. Coulson was holding himself, it wasn't really the point of the meeting at all. He was just trying to ease them up to whatever he'd _really_ brought them here for. And when his conversational gambits failed, he just got straight to the point.

"The other reason I wanted to bring you all together today," he said, "is because we have a new student, and as some of you already know, it's hard being new, but especially in the middle of the year. I thought this might be a good way to let her get to know some of the other students here in a no-pressure—"

Loki made a noise. "Excuse me, Mr. Coulson, but I would _hardly_ call this no-pressure. No pressure is allowing her to find her own group of peers to interface with, not forcing her into a room with a group that you have already deemed – or who have deemed themselves, or created a self-fulfilling prophecy to become – misfits, expecting us all to welcome her and expecting her to _want_ to become part of your little social experiment."

"Thank you for your feedback, Mr. Odinson," Mr. Coulson said. "I assure you, I have already explained to her a little bit about what this group is, and she expressed an interest to at least meet with you all. No one is being forced—"

" _We_ are," Loki interrupted again. "You are forcing _us_ to—"

"Oh for god's sake," Tony said, "you're only here because you've managed to piss off all of the other drama kids with your prima donna antics and didn't have anywhere else to go without exposing your social pariah status to the rest of the world. You really couldn't care less about—"

"Enough," Mr. Coulson said. "There is no need to fight about this. You all came of your own free will. If you've changed your mind, you're welcome to go. Otherwise, I would really like to let our new student in so she's not stuck waiting in the office the entire time." He looked around, but no one moved. Not even Loki, who had decided to sulk instead.

With one last look around the room, Mr. Coulson opened the door. "You can come in now," he told whoever was waiting outside. 

In stepped a girl with long blonde hair and glasses, who looked around at all of them and smiled. "Hey," she said. "I'm Bobbi Morse, and yes, I'm new here, and yes, it sucks, but not as much as my old school, I hope, so... here I am."

She looked familiar – _really_ familiar – but Clint couldn't quite place her until he glanced over at Bruce and saw him staring and trying not to stare, dumbfounded and stricken. Then it clicked. This was the girl from the hospital, the one who'd been visiting Bruce. She seemed to be enjoying watching him squirm, and when she saw Clint staring, she winked at him. 

She looked a lot better than she had in the hospital, but that wasn't really that surprising. People went to the hospital when they were sick, and they didn't tend to look their best. He didn't remember if Bruce had told him what she'd been sick with, or if he'd overheard, only something about her mother being overprotective. Anyway, she had more color in her cheeks now, and didn't look likely to keel over at any minute.

The wink wasn't lost on Natasha, who looked at him curiously. Not suspiciously, he didn't think, but then there was nothing to be suspicious of. _Who?_ , she asked, keeping the sign small.

_She was in the hospital with Bruce. She was visiting him one time when I went._

The motion of his hands further drew Bobbi's attention, but she didn't say anything about it. Maybe she was more interested in Bruce, who now seemed to be pretending that he had no idea who she was. Why, Clint wasn't sure. It wasn't like there was any shame in knowing people outside of their circle. Did he think Tony was going to lose it if he found out that Bruce had other friends? It wasn't _entirely_ outside of the realm of possibility, of course, but Clint always kind of assumed that everyone had people they knew outside of this little group... except him and Natasha, but then even he had Kate and the other people at the archery range.

"Do you want to tell us a little bit about yourself?" Mr. Coulson prompted her as she sank into a chair. 

"Oh, sure," Bobbi said. "Like I said, my name is Bobbi. Barbara, technically, but no one really calls me that. I'm a junior this year, which is kind of a miracle considering that I was out of school for most of last year. Long story, not that interesting," she glanced at Bruce then as if she thought he might argue with her, before continuing. "I used to play soccer but I hated it. My favorite subject is science, especially biology, and I'm really into martial arts. I'm a first degree black belt in Tae Kwon Do, working on my second degree, so don't mess with me." She smiled brightly and leaned back.

"Thank you," Mr. Coulson said. "Why don't we do a quick round of introductions so Bobbi can start to get to know you all?"

So they went around the room, giving names, grades, favorite subjects or interests, keeping everything pretty much on the surface, although they weren't as reticent about it as they had been when this had all started out. 

"We're still working out what we'd like to focus on this semester," Mr. Coulson said. "Some kind of project that we can do to contribute to the school community, something like that. I know that most of you are working on the school musical and that's eating up a lot of your time, but keep it in the back of your mind. Also, it doesn't necessarily have to be within the school community; it can be for the larger community as well."

"We didn't do anything like that last year," Loki said. 

"There was a lot going on in the latter part of last year," Mr. Coulson said, and Clint wondered if he was aware that his eyes darted, just for a second, toward Natasha when he said it. "It got pushed to the side as we dealt with more pressing issues."

"Are we going to do that team-building retreat thing again?" Tony asked. 

"Do you want to do it again?" Mr. Coulson countered.

"I do," Natasha said, much to everyone's surprise. "Maybe with less rain this time."

"Yeah, I'd like to," Bruce said. "It was kind of fun."  
"And we've got more people... well, different people," Clint said. "Jess and Carol... and Bobbi, now... didn't go last year."

"Well, I can't control the weather," Mr. Coulson said, smiling, "but I can certainly work on making some arrangements to go again. Thank you for bringing it up."

Then the bell rang, and they all grabbed their stuff and headed for the door. Out in the hall, Clint saw Bruce hesitate, say something to Tony, then stop. "Do you know where you're going?" he asked Bobbi.

"I think so," she said. "I got the full tour, and I'm pretty good at remembering directions, but if you're headed my way..." She shrugged and smiled, and they walked off together. "Bye, Natasha," she called after them. "Bye, Creeper."

Clint rolled his eyes. _When I went to see Bruce, she was in there talking to him and I waited outside the door for a little bit before going in. She noticed and decided I was a creeper,_ he explained before Natasha could ask.

_That is a little creepy,_ Natasha said. 

_I know. I just... didn't really know what else to do. I didn't want to interrupt... and I didn't really know what to say to Bruce, either,_ he admitted.

_I don't think anyone did,_ Natasha said. She started to walk, and Clint followed, even though it was in the wrong direction for his class, because there was something about her that told him he should, something in the way she held her head, her jaw tense, the way her eyes didn't quite meet his. She walked until they were away from everyone, then stopped, her back still to him.

"I'm glad you find me," she said, her voice only just barely loud enough for Clint to hear. "I'm glad you fight."

"I'm glad too," he said, wrapping his arms around her from behind, pulling her in to his chest and resting his cheek against her hair. "I'm glad you're here."

Her hands came up, her arms crossing over his, lacing their fingers together and holding tight. He closed his eyes, letting darkness and silence enfold them as he felt more than heard her breathe, the rhythm of it slowing to match his. 

The bell rang and they didn't move. Moments like this felt too rare, especially when they were at school, and if they had the chance to just be, to find calm in a world that was still sometimes completely overwhelming, they would take it. For a few minutes, they could be okay, and everything could make sense. Detention seemed a small price to pay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to stave off any questions: Yes, I know that Clint and Bobbi were a canon couple in the comics. No, I am not going in that direction. I absolutely hate love triangles; I think they are trite and cliche and I'm not going there. Bobbi is awesome all on her own, which is why she's here. :-)


	31. Chapter 31

Clint sat in his car outside the building where his therapist was waiting for him. Well, probably was with another client at the moment, but would be waiting for him in a few minutes. He thought about just not going in; who was going to make him? He'd driven himself, so there was nothing to stop him from just driving away and showing back at the Sullivans' after the appropriate amount of time. How would they know?

Except if he didn't show up, his therapist might call his house to see where he was, or try to check in after, and she wouldn't be calling his cell phone. They would find out one way or another, and then he'd be in deep shit. It had been part of the agreement they'd come to when he'd left that one time; if he was going to stay, he was going to need to continue to operate within the foster care system, and part of that was regular meetings with his therapist as well as his case worker. 

Better to just go in and get it over with, then. He sighed and pushed open the door to his car, stepping out into the cold and immediately regretting it. He should have told Mrs. Sullivan he didn't feel good, had her reschedule for him. Or said he had some school project to work on. He would probably have put off the appointment for a week at least, maybe even two because they tended to get overbooked. 

Why did he always think of things when it was too late? 

He hurried into the building, making sure that the door shut behind him (it was an older building and the door and its frame weren't perfectly matched anymore. He checked in at the front desk, and the receptionist flashed him a smile. "She'll be with you shortly."

"Thanks," he mumbled, and slumped into a chair, pulling up his collar around his ears, which were aching again. He wished he could pull of his hearing aids, but obviously that wasn't an option. His therapist didn't sign (unless she had tricks up her sleeve that he wasn't aware of, but he doubted it). Hell, she didn't even know _he_ could sign, unless he'd told her at some point without even realizing it. Maybe he had... He couldn't remember, and it didn't really matter. Natasha's therapist knew; he remembered that whole incident pretty vividly. 

He was just going to have to suffer for another 50-minute hour and then he could at least take them off while he was in the car... but that was maybe not the greatest idea, either. But deaf people could drive. There was nothing that kept them from getting a driver's license. He would just have to be a little more aware of his surroundings, look for flashing lights because he couldn't hear sirens, that kind of thing.

An angry-looking boy stepped out of the therapists office with his arms crossed, trailed by an older woman who was obviously not his biological mother, unless he'd missed something critical in biology. A few minutes later his therapist – her name was Janet, and he could call her that if he wanted, but it felt awkward so usually he didn't call her anything – poked her head out. "You can come on in."

He sank down onto the couch in her office, sinking down until the top of his head was level with the back. She hated it when he slouched like that. "I can hardly see you," she always complained. He didn't bother to tell her that that was the point; if she knew anything about how the insides of kids' heads worked, she would know that already.

"Why don't you take off your coat and stay a while?" she asked. "I've got the heat turned up so it's not freezing in here for once."

Clint shrugged. "I'm fine."

"Suit yourself." She leaned forward, her elbows on her desk and her chin propped on her folded hands. "How are things going for you?"

Clint shrugged. "Fine." 

"Could you be a little more specific?" she asked. 

"Could _you_?" he retorted. 

"Fair enough," she said. "How are things at home? I know things haven't always been smooth for you with your foster parents."

"Fine," Clint said, realizing even as he was doing it that he was just saying it to be spiteful. It wasn't her fault that he had to do this. And hey, maybe if he gave a little about some things it would keep her off his case about others. He didn't know how much she knew about what had happened over Christmas break. He hadn't said anything, but that didn't mean that the Sullivans hadn't. "Better recently than they were."

"That's good to hear," she said. "What's changed, do you think?"

"I think we're getting better at listening to each other," Clint said, because it was the sort of thing that a shrink would probably like to hear... and also because it was true. "Like we're finally starting to understand each other. They get where I'm coming from more... and I guess I get where they're coming from too, sometimes, even if I don't always like it."

Janet nodded. "That's a pretty normal part of growing up, really. It's something that all teenagers tend to go through with their parents – or foster parents. It can be hard to find that balance, especially for them as you get older and become more independent."

Clint didn't actually _feel_ more independent, though. In a way, he thought it was almost the opposite. He'd stopped fighting all the time when they tried to actually be parental, let them take care of things, of _him_ , sometimes, and somehow that made things easier, better. Or maybe it was that he'd just stopped fighting all the time. Whatever it was, it was working; things at home were actually going okay. It was the rest of his life that was a mess. 

So better to keep talking about the Sullivans, so she didn't ask about anything else. "They actually even trusted me to watch the younger boys for an afternoon a few weeks ago," he told her. "Some of my friends helped, because it was the day that we usually have our study group."

"How did that go?" she asked. 

"Better than I expected," Clint said. "But Carol has younger brothers, or at least one younger brother, and I think Jess has..." _Shit. Shut up, Clint. You're saying too much._ "... experience with kids, too, in the past. And I worked at the summer camp, so... once we tired them out having a snowball fight, we let them play some video games while we studied, then we made pizza with them and they were basically in bed by the time the Sullivans got back."

"Sounds pretty successful," she said. "I'm sure they appreciated your willingness to help out, too."

"They couldn't get anyone else," Clint said. "They were desperate."

"Even so." She glanced down at her notepad, which she hadn't actually been writing on. "I don't think you've mentioned Carol and Jess before."

He tried not to mention anyone, but he'd had to fill in some blanks over the last year and a half. If he didn't put names to his friends, he figured, she wasn't going to believe that they existed. "Jess – Jessica – is Natasha's foster sister. She's our age. Carol was her tutor first, but they got to be friends, and now we all study together. Carol's helping me on the set crew for the musical, and Jess is working with Natasha on costumes."

"So they've become part of your larger circle of friends," she said. "That's what it sounds like."

"Yeah. They kind of got absorbed." Clint shrugged. 

"You mentioned the musical – how is that going? When does it actually go up?"

"Mid-March," Clint said. "I'd have to look at a calendar. I don't remember exactly what days. It's Thursday through Sunday, and we do a show during the day Wednesday for the eighth graders. They come up to the high school to see it. It's kind of like a final dress rehearsal for us."

"And you're working on the sets?"

"Yeah. I'm the stage manager, I guess. I'm still figuring out what exactly that means." It meant a hell of a lot of work, he was discovering, and more responsibility than he probably ought to be trusted with, he thought. He'd deputized – or whatever you'd call it – Carol as his assistant stage manager, and even though she didn't have any more experience with it, she tended to be able to fill in the gaps when he couldn't quite get his shit together, and when they were on comms running things during the show, she was more likely to be able to hear and understand what was being said than he was, and could relay it to him if necessary.

"That sounds like it could be a lot of pressure," she said. "How are you handling that?"

"Fine," he said, irritated that she immediately assumed that he couldn't do it. "Just because I ain't got it all figured out yet doesn't mean I won't."

"I wasn't implying that you wouldn't," she said, trying to placate him. "I just know it can be hard when you feel like you're under pressure to do well on something that you maybe don't have a lot of experience with, and sometimes with everything else going on, stress can get hard to manage. You've got a lot on your plate."

"I do fine," Clint said. "My grades are decent, I already told you things are better at home, I got my friends. What more do you want?"

"I just want to make sure that you have appropriate coping skills to deal with it when things get difficult. People don't always understand that being a teenager isn't easy. People talk about how high school and college are the best times of their lives, and that may be the case, but we often look back with rose-tinted lenses, forgetting that sometimes when you're in it, just going through it day-to-day, it can feel like a battle."

_Maybe she ain't as dumb as I thought,_ Clint decided. Maybe her years of experience dealing with kids had actually taught her a thing or two. "I do all right," he said again. "I can handle it."

"What do you do when you get stressed?" she asked. 

Clint shrugged. "Watch movies, drive around, try to forget about it."

"Anything else?"

"Not really."

"You don't ever talk to anyone?"

Clint crossed his arms. "Natasha, sometimes." A lot of the time. Most of the time. Only not as much lately, because he didn't want her to know what he was worrying about more often than not. He didn't want to let on to her that he felt like he was falling apart, that the future they were supposed to have together was crumbling because he couldn't hold up his end of the bargain. 

"Natasha is...?"

Had he somehow never told her? That seemed impossible, but then... maybe not. He'd spent so much time being so careful about what he said about Natasha and who he said it to, not wanting anyone asking any questions that he wouldn't (or sometimes couldn't) answer. But to have never mentioned her at all? 

"My best friend," Clint said. "Natasha is my best friend." _For now, until she realizes how much of a loser I am and gives up on me._

"Ah. So she's the person that you talk to when you need support?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "She's... we're always there for each other, as much as we can be. We've been through a lot in the last year, but we had each other, so... we did all right."

"And you have the social worker at your school, too, is that right? He's someone you can talk to if you need someone?"

Was she trying to make a point? Having a friend wasn't good enough? He frowned. "Yeah, if I need to I can talk to him." Mr. Coulson hadn't actually let them down so far, so if things got to be too bad, there were certainly worse people to talk to. 

"That's good. Now... I wanted to ask you about something that I understand if you don't want to talk about, but I think if I don't bring it up, it's going to become a sort of elephant in the room. So... Mrs. Sullivan did tell me that over Christmas—" She stopped at the huge sigh that Clint heaved, apparently deciding that it was enough of an interruption that she was going to wait for him to say whatever he had to say on the topic.

"Bruce, right?" Clint asked, in case he was wrong.

"Yes," she said. "Bruce."

"He's fine. He made a mistake. He's fine now. I'm sure he's got regularly scheduled appointments with his own shrink to talk about better coping techniques. What does that have to do with me?" Clint asked. "I've never tried to kill myself, and I don't plan to." He almost said 'any time soon' but realized that she might take that the wrong way, and it really wasn't a conversation that he wanted to be having. "I don't want to talk about it. We've already talked it to death, with Mr. Coulson, with Bruce, with each other. I'm not _scarred_ or whatever you're thinking. We moved on."

She looked at him for a long moment, and he wondered if she was going to force the issue or whether, for once, she would leave it well enough alone. Wonder of wonder, she went for the latter. "So what about school?" she asked. "You said that you were getting decent grades. Have you started preparing for the SATs?"

"Yeah, of course," Clint said. In truth, he had no idea what the SATs were, beyond that it was some big test that anyone who wanted to go to college had to take to prove how well they could fill in a scantron sheet. His teachers kept talking about it, but he mostly tuned out when it came up, because what was the point? He wasn't going to college. He wasn't smart enough, and what would he go for? 

"Have you started thinking about where you might want to apply?"

And why did everyone _assume_ he was going? It was like it was expected. It was what you did after you went to high school... except no, it was what _normal_ kids did after they finished high school, and he sure as hell wasn't normal. 

"Not really," Clint said. "I don't even have to worry about that 'til next year. I just want to get through the rest of this one first." Which was probably the most true thing he'd ever said to her. 

"Maybe after the SATs you'll start getting brochures that you can look at. It's a big decision."

Of course it was. It was a big decision that he'd already made. It was a big decision that had pretty much been made for him when his parents hadn't bothered to send him to school or teach him much of anything beyond reading, writing, and arithmetic. He might be able to fake his way through high school, but college wasn't happening. 

"I'm kind of not feeling that great," Clint said. "Do you think maybe we can end early?" 

She looked at the clock and sighed. "Sure," she said. "Make sure that you set up your next appointment before you leave, if you haven't already."

"Yeah, sure," Clint said, standing up. He could feel her eyes burning into his back as he walked out, but he just couldn't quite bring himself to care.


	32. Chapter 32

Obviously Clint had heard of the Olympics. It wasn't like he'd grown up under a rock. He'd probably even seen some coverage of them here and there along the way. Some of the others in the circus, those who'd come from other countries, had cared a lot more about them than the Americans ever had, but then maybe they'd actually known people competing or something. Who knew? Or maybe they were just desperate for a taste of home.

Carol, though... Carol seemed to care a lot about them. She didn't care who won, necessarily; she rooted for America by default, but she said that she pretty much cheered for all of them, because hey, why not? Every single one of them was amazing, right? They made what would be impossible to them seem easy, and dedicated their lives to their sports, and that deserved a round of applause as far as she was concerned. 

So it was Carol that had them all curled and sprawled and draped over the living room furniture in Mr. Fury's house on Friday night, with popcorn and tea and whatever other refreshments they felt necessary, to watch the opening ceremony.

"But no one's even doing anything," Jessica said, frowning at the screen where a commentator was talking to the president. "There's no sledding or skiing or whatever going on."

"I don't think sledding is an Olympic sport," Clint said. 

"Bobsled is," Carol said. "There's also luge, and now skeleton... which is kind of insane."

"There's a sport called _skeleton_?" Jessica asked. "That sounds... ominous."

Carol shrugged. "I don't know why it's called that," she admitted. "But it's basically, you have a sled, and you run and then you throw yourself down on it head first and go down the luge track – I think it's the same track – as fast as you can and try not to wipe out. It's the head first thing that's kind of scary. I mean, if you mess up, you're going to crash with your head. They wear helmets and everything, but..." She shrugged again. "But it was actually a luger who died last Olympics. They ended up changing the course because it was too dangerous."

"Loser?" Clint asked, sure he'd heard Carol wrong.

"Luger," she corrected. "With a 'g'. Like skeleton, but you're on your back and going down feet first instead of your stomach head first. So... theoretically safer, or at least I would think. Obviously not for that guy, though." 

They were quiet for a moment, watching the screen where there was still nothing much happening. Clint glanced at Natasha, who was staring at the screen of her phone, her forehead furrowed. He left her to it; she'd been quiet all night, silently prickly, and he didn't want to upset her. 

"But still, if nothing is happening, why do we have to watch?" Jess asked. 

"Stuff will happen," Carol said. "I promise. It's the opening ceremony. They put on a big show to show off the host country and all of the athletes parade in and then they bring in the torch to light the cauldron and officially start the games."

"And... it's a big deal?" Clint asked.

Carol laughed. " _Yes._ And it's interesting. Usually. The Beijing games were really spectacular. They had some crazy number of performers, and it was really impressive. Vancouver was interesting, too, even if maybe it wasn't quite as... _grand_ as Beijing. London was the summer games two years ago, and that was... Well, they had the queen – not really the queen, obviously, but someone pretending to be the queen – parachute in with James Bond, so... yeah. I don't think they..." She stopped. "Well, I think they took it seriously, but I don't think they took _themselves_ all that seriously. It was fun."

Clint nodded. He was pretty sure he'd heard everything Carol had said correctly; all of the words were in place, but they didn't add up to much to him. Better to just smile and nod and let her believe that he knew what she was talking about than to have her try to explain and just make things worse. It didn't really matter, did it? Not in the grand scheme of things.

Probably not even in the small scheme of things. 

"Anyway, none of you have ever seen it, and it's... not really a rite of passage, I guess. I'm sure there are plenty of people who go their entire lives without ever paying any attention to the Olympics, but it's... a thing. A thing that brings the country – the world – together, a thing that happens in the real world, and—"

"So you're saying that we're not part of the 'real world'?" Jessica asked. It was hard to tell if she was joking; her face made it seem like maybe she wasn't, but sometimes she was like that. 

Carol frowned slightly. "No, just—"

"Just because I grew up in a place where television was basically forbidden and what we were allowed to see was strictly monitored doesn't mean that I didn't grow up in the real world," Jessica said. 

"I didn't mean—" Carol started, holding her hands up in surrender.

Jessica finally cracked a smile. "I know. I'm joking."

"Oh." Carol looked relieved, and smiled back. "I wasn't sure."

"I know that I can be clueless," Jessica said more seriously. "It's all right."

Clint looked over at Natasha again, and could see the tension in her jaw, spreading down her neck and through her shoulders. She was still staring at her phone, and he didn't know if she was upset about something that she was looking at or at what Carol had said, or none of the above. He wished that the show would start already, distract her from whatever was going on in her head.

"Is called skeleton because that is what sled looks like," Natasha said. "Some people still call it tobogganing, but officially the name change back in 1892."

"Good to know," Carol said. "Oh hey – looks like things are about to get going."

They turned their attention back to the television, where a video began that took them through the Cyrillic alphabet, showing something significant to Russia or its history for each letter. Clint watched with one eye on the screen and one on Natasha, who was watching with wide eyes, blinking more than maybe was normal, and he saw her throat bob as she swallowed hard. He reached out, palm up, offering her a hand, and after a moment she took it, wrapping her fingers around his and holding on, not tight, just holding like they might any other time, for the comfort and closeness of it.

"What's hedgehog in the fog?" Jess asked, but Carol shushed her gently.

The show went on, and Clint felt Natasha shift, leaning closer to him, and closer still, until he let go of her hand to slip his arm around her shoulders, offering his other hand now as she tucked herself against his side. He combed his fingers through her hair, rubbing her scalp gently as her head rested against his shoulder.

He could feel more than see Jess and Carol occasionally looking over at them, looking to Natasha for explanation or translation, but she stayed quiet, offering nothing. Clint wondered what was going on in her head, whether it made her happy to see all of these reminders of her home country, or sad, whether she missed them or was glad to be rid of it all... and whether it could ever really be that simple. He knew the conflict he felt when he thought about the circus; could it really be that different for her?

When it went to commercial, he turned his head and pressed a kiss to Natasha's head. She looked up at him, and he disentangled their fingers to sign, quick and small, "Okay?"

She nodded, taking his hand back and pressing it over her heart, silencing him maybe, although he could always talk out loud, or maybe just wanting the closeness. He could feel the way her breath caught sometimes, feel it when she tensed or sighed, too quiet to let on to anyone else in the room, but impossible for him to miss when by now she was practically in his lap.

Which, he knew, was better than the alternative. She could be pulling away, burrowing into the opposite arm of the couch instead, putting space between them so he couldn't do anything to ease whatever she was feeling. And maybe he was making assumptions, anyway. Maybe she was fine... but he was pretty sure he wasn't wrong.

"Wait," Jess said, as the athletes from Great Britain followed those from Brazil. "That's not how the alphabet goes!"

"Is in Russian," Natasha said, her voice soft, low, huskier than usual. "In Russian alphabet, name for Great Britain follows Brazil."

"Oh." Jessica considered, shrugged. "Weird."

"To you."

"To me," she agreed. 

"Can you imagine being the only athlete from your entire country to go to the Olympics?" Carol asked. "That's just... what an honor, you know? Even if you know you stand no chance of winning, you went, you competed, and you get to have those bragging rights forever."

"And then there's us," Clint said, as the stream of American athletes started to file in, more of them than any other country up to that point.... and more than any other country until the very end, when Russia came in with exactly two more competitors than the US. "You think they did that on purpose?" he asked, not really expecting an answer.

"Yes," Natasha said. "I think yes."

Once all of the athletes were in the stadium, the show began again with a walk through, as the commentators called it, a 'highly idealized' version of Russian history. 

"What they mean is, is lie," Natasha said. 

"What do you mean?" Carol asked, looking at her.

"I mean they hide all of the bad, make it pretty to sell it to the rest of world like pretty package," Natasha said.

"All countries do that, I would imagine," Carol said. "They all want to show off their best bits, not the worst."

"Maybe," Natasha said. "Does not change that what you see is mostly lie."

"Do you miss it?" Carol asked. 

Natasha didn't reply right away. "I miss understanding," she said finally. "I miss being understood." She squeezed Clint's hand, glanced at him, but if she was trying to say something with that look, that gesture, he wasn't sure what it was. "Not just language, although that is part of it, but also... Russia is not America. Russians are not Americans. How you think... where you grow up, it shapes how you think. I do not think like American. Maybe I never will. And sometimes I do not understand, and sometimes people do not understand me, because we come from two worlds so far apart. But most of time I am glad to be here."

"Do you think you'll ever go back?" Carol asked. 

"To stay?" Natasha shook her head. "I do not want to go back to stay. Maybe to visit. Maybe someday."

Carol nodded, and didn't press for more, and Clint felt Natasha relax a little, like she'd unconsciously been bracing for a fight. She turned her head to look at him, kissing his jaw. 

"I will take you if I go," she said. "I will show you my home." 

"Okay," Clint said. It was a relief to hear her say it, in a way. If she was talking about showing him Russia someday then it meant that she expected that they would still be together, or at least friends, far enough in the future that they could afford something like that. But there was a part of him that couldn't quite believe her, that couldn't put faith in those words. 

But that was a worry for another time.

They watched as the torch was brought into the stadium, and then jogged back out again, and the cauldron was lit. They watched the fireworks, and Clint could feel Natasha relax, heavy against him. It took him a minute to realize that she'd fallen asleep. He hated to shake her awake, but although he might be able to lift her, he was pretty sure he wasn't strong enough to carry her all the way upstairs to put her to bed, and he certainly had no faith in his ability to do so without knocking her head or feet against something in the process and jarring her awake.

"Is over?" she mumbled. 

"It's over," he agreed. "You didn't miss anything."

"Mm." She sat up, disentangled herself from the blankets they'd draped over themselves and yawning. "Okay." She reached for his hand, then just stood there like she wasn't quite sure what she was supposed to be doing, so he led her upstairs and tucked them in together.

She rolled onto her side, her head on his shoulder and her hand on his chest, her favorite position to sleep as far as he could tell. "I will take you," she said again sleepily. "One day, we will go."

"I look forward to it," Clint said. He kissed her forehead, and she tipped her face up so he could kiss her lips. "Good night, _lubov_ ," he said, because that was a word they'd all learned, one Russian word that as far as he was concerned might be the only one he ever needed. 

" _Sladkikh snov,_ " she replied, and Clint didn't know what it meant, but he figured it must be something like good night. Natasha wasn't awake long enough for him to ask.


	33. Chapter 33

Clint arrived at school with two cups of coffee and a greasy paper bag. It didn't take long to find Natasha; she was waiting just inside the door for him. She pushed his open as he approached. _Good morning,_ she signed, propping the door with her hip to free her hands as he slipped by. 

_Morning,_ he replied, after handing over one of the cups to her. He motioned for her to follow, finding a corner of the lobby where there was a bench and plopping down on it. She sat beside him, close enough her knee bumped his. He opened the paper bag and presented her with a heart-shaped donut. _Happy Valentine's Day._

Her forehead furrowed slightly. "Oh." 

Clint cocked his head. "What?" he asked, before taking a big bite of his own donut, which had pink frosting and sprinkles, and oozed red jelly. "What's wrong?" The words came out garbled.

Natasha shook her head, glancing away. "I forget."

He reached out and touched the back of her hand lightly. "So what? I just wanted to do something nice. I don't expect anything." 

Except he kind of had, a little, because today was important. Not because it was Valentine's Day, but because they'd been together a year today... sort of. It was kind of hard to figure out an exact date for when they'd gone from being friends to more than friends. Their first kiss had been on Christmas... the day after Christmas?... and there had been a few more after that... but they hadn't really been _together_. And there had been the time at the fire, when they'd only known each other a few weeks, but that _definitely_ didn't count. 

But Valentine's Day last year had been when he'd decided – when _they_ had decided, he thought – that in spite of everything going on, in spite of the fact that she was still with her uncle – not-uncle – and in spite of the fact that she was still being forced to...

Clint's thoughts skittered away from it, because really, he just wanted to make her smile, and here he was screwing things up again. 

"I'm sorry," Natasha said, signing it at the same time. _It's... I'm..._ She shrugged. 

He understood, or thought he did. She was struggling more than she would admit with the sudden constant reminders of where she'd come from. More than one of her teachers had asked her, in the past week, to talk about what Russia was like, with all the attention that it was getting because of the Olympics. She told Clint that she tried to say as little as possible, just enough to get them off her back, but it almost inevitably led to rounds of questions from other students, and she got stuck talking about things that maybe weren't bad memories, but which led her to thinking about things that definitely were.

She looked paler than usual, tired and drawn, and he knew that she hated having anyone's attention on her that she didn't seek out. He hated that there was nothing he could do to protect her from it, no way to act as a shield or a buffer. She could hold her own; she was strong as steel, as she'd proven time and time again, but it didn't mean that she should have to.

_It's Boston cream,_ he told her, nudging the donut toward her again. _Your favorite._

_Thank you,_ she said, and picked it up. She ate slowly, staring into space like there was something interesting somewhere in the distance, on a horizon that no one could see but her. Or maybe not interesting. Concerning. Baffling. 

He wanted to smooth the lines from her forehead, wanted to kiss them away and convince her somehow that it was okay, that she was safe, that he couldn't take away everything that weighed her down but he could help carry some of it if she would let him, but...

... but the bell rang, and she stood up abruptly. _I'll see you later,_ she said, and didn't wait for him to respond before taking off down the hall.

He got up, gathering his things as quickly as he could, and chased after her, dodging between other students to catch up. "Natasha," he called, "wait!" 

She stopped. He hadn't been sure that she would, but she did, moving toward the wall to be out of the flow of bodies. She turned back toward him, her expression as blank as she could make it. 

"'Tasha," he said, when he was close enough that she could hear without him shouting, too close, maybe, but she didn't move away. "Did I do something wrong?" 

"What?" She frowned, stiffened like she was preparing to argue, but then something softened in her. "No. No, is not you."

"What?" he asked.

She shook her head. "We can't be late," she said. "I will see you later, yes?"

"Yes, but—"

"I am okay," she assured him. She slid her fingers around his, squeezed, then extended her thumb, index finger, and pinkie. "Okay?"

He sighed, did the same. "Okay," he said, but he held on to her until the second bell rang, the one warning them that if they didn't get where they needed to be in the next minute, they were going to be late. 

"Go," she said, pushing him gently. "No detention today."

 

When he saw her later, she seemed to have recovered a little. Maybe she'd just needed the hit of sugar and coffee to get her brain going... or maybe to shut it down, or bring it up, or whatever sugar and caffeine did to you to make you feel more human.

They sat down to lunch, sharing what they had between them. Natasha didn't go without lunch these days, but it was habit now that whatever they had got divvied up, which was sometimes a good thing because once in a while Jessica decided to be helpful and pack Natasha's lunch for her, and it wasn't always one hundred percent edible, although she _was_ getting better.

"Oh look," Natasha said, pulling out a plastic baggie with two heart-shaped cookies in it; chocolate chip, except made with Valentine's M&Ms. "At least someone remember for me." She smiled, the first one he'd seen out her all day, and handed one to him. 

"How does she even know about Valentine's Day?" Clint asked. "I can't imagine they were big on it where she came from. Wouldn't it be worshipping false idols or something? Or buying in to... what d'ya call it? Where you just do what you're told to because the TV tells you to or whatever?"

Natasha shrugged, not knowing the word either.

"Anyway, it doesn't seem like they cared much about love at all, so..."

"She's not stupid," Natasha reminded him. "She learns like everyone else. Probably Carol tell her."

Clint thought that over for a minute, decided it was probably true. "Do you ever get the feeling like sometimes Carol is... _flirting_ with her?"

Natasha looked at him sharply, then bit the inside of her lip to try to keep from grinning. "So I am not the only one who sees this," she said. "Sometimes I think I am crazy, but sometimes..."

"Probably not going to end well for her if she is," Clint said. "But maybe it's just for fun."

"Maybe so," Natasha said. "You are coming over tonight?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "But I thought maybe we could... y'know... go out. First." He could feel heat creeping into his cheeks and to the tips of his ears, like asking his girlfriend out on a date was something to be embarrassed about. But they didn't actually go out much; usually they stayed in, or they were out with a group. The whole traditional dinner and a movie (or whatever) thing had happened few enough times that he could count them on one hand and still have fingers left over.

And the truth was, he was actually kind of worried that she would say no. 

"Go where?" she asked. 

"To dinner, maybe," Clint said. "And... I don't think there's any good movies out, but we could look. Or..." Or he hadn't really thought this through. He hadn't come up with a good plan, and now he looked like an idiot. Shit.

"You are asking me on date?" Natasha asked.

"Well... that _is_ what people do when they're dating," Clint said. "Or so the movies would have me believe."

She laughed. "So you want to be like people in movies?"

"So I want to spend time with you," he said. "Call me crazy."

"You are crazy," she says, still smiling, "but okay. I will go out with you. To dinner or a movie."

"Dinner _and_ a movie," Clint corrected. "Or something."

"Or something." Her hand dropped to his knee, her thumb tracing lightly over the seam of his jeans. 

He shivered, trying not to let himself think took much about her hands anywhere else on his body. Not now. _Definitely not now._ And was she hinting at something? "Okay." 

 

He picked her up the evening, since she'd insisted she needed to change before they went anywhere. It wasn't the same dress she'd worn for Christmas, but she looked just as beautiful, and he felt just as unworthy standing next to her this time around. 

_Where are you taking me?_ , she asked as she got in the car. _Do I get a choice, or is it a surprise?_

"To dinner," he told her, because he couldn't sign while driving, or at least not easily. "How does Indian sound?" He figured an Indian restaurant wouldn't be the first thing that people thought of when planning a romantic dinner, and it was classier than Chinese. Not that he was classy, but she was, and she deserved better than sesame chicken for Valentine's Day.

"Perfect," she said. 

He was wrong, it turned out, about the relative level of romance associated with Indian food. _Sorry,_ he told her when they were informed there would be a wait. _I didn't think..._

_It's fine,_ she said. _You didn't have to do this at all. Stop worrying._

_I just always get things wrong,_ he said, trying to pass it off like he meant it as a joke, or at least as if it didn't bother him as much as it did. 

_How is this wrong?_ , Natasha asked. _We're here, we're going to have dinner that isn't cooked by Jessica, and we're together. Seems all right to me._ She slid her hand into his then, half-muting him unless he wanted to actually say whatever he was thinking out loud, and she knew him well enough to know that he wasn't likely to.

Thankfully, the wait didn't end up being too long, and they were soon led to a table. Natasha slipped off her coat, and that was when Clint noticed something pinned to the front of her dress, just to the left of her breastbone. A felt heart, purple for those wounded in battle, looking a bit fuzzier and more worn than it had a year ago, but still the same one.

He was grateful for the menu in front of him and the glass of water by his hand, because it gave him a chance to blink and swallow the lump in his throat before making any attempt at conversation. 

He was also grateful for the snowstorm the day before, because he'd made some extra money shoveling people's driveways, which would be enough to cover the meal... he hoped. 

They didn't talk much during the meal, or at least not about anything of any consequence. School, their friends, the play... things that weren't likely to result in either of them stepping on a landmine. Clint wondered if it was like this for other people, other couples, if there were things that they just couldn't talk about, at least not in public, because of the possibility of a catastrophic reaction. 

The last thing he wanted was to make Natasha pull away when it was just the two of them – _really_ just the two of them, for the first time in longer than he cared to remember. They were pretty much always surrounded by someone these days, and the constant contact chafed, left them both raw and with little opportunity to tend to the wounds, for themselves or for each other.

"Oh shi—oot," Clint said after they ordered dessert. "I have something for you, but I left it in the car."

He saw her stiffen slightly. "It can wait?"

"I guess so," Clint said, settling back into his seat. 

She reached across the table and took his hand again, studying him like she wasn't quite sure what to make of him in that moment. She opened her mouth like she was going to say something, then closed it again as dessert arrived. She released his hand and murmured a thank you to the waiter, retreating back to her side of the table, quieter even than before.

He helped her with her jacket as they got up to leave, and she smiled and leaned back against him for a second before reaching for his coat to do the same, the smile turning into a grin as he scowled at her. "What?" she asked, her eyebrows raised, all innocence. 

He knew better than to try and tell her that it was what a man did for a woman, not the other way around. The last thing he needed was to end up engaged in a debate that he had no chance of winning. So he shrugged on his coat and offered her his elbow.

They went back to the car, and Clint reached into the back seat to pull out a large gift bag covered in gaudy red and pink hearts. "For you," he said. "And I know I didn't have to," he added before she could object. "I wanted to."

She reached into the bag and pulled out the card first. With the snow yesterday he hadn't wanted to brave the roads to go to the store, so he'd raided the younger boys' craft supplies for construction paper and made the card himself. There's been a little bit of an incident with the glitter, and it flaked off now and rained down the front of Natasha's coat. 

She shut her eyes tight and took in a deep breath that hitched before even opening it. He hadn't written much inside; he hadn't really known what to write because words didn't seem like enough to cover what they'd been through, how far they'd come, how much farther he wanted to go. 

She looked at him, biting her lip, her fingers so tight that the paper began to crumple. He reached over and eased the card from her grip, uncurling her fingers and pressing a kiss to her palm. "Go on," he said, nodding toward the bag. 

She reached in, dislodging tissue paper to pull out the gift that he'd actually remembered to get ahead of time, and had been hiding from her for well over a week now. She looked at the bear, at its smiling face and the jeans and sneakers it wore, and the hoodie with the felt heart sewn to the chest. She pointed to it, head cocked, "Is this...?"

Clint shook his head, reached into his pocket and pulled out the one she'd given him a year ago. She nodded, touched her chest over the place where her own was hidden under the coat, then traced her fingertips over the teddy bear's fur. "Does he have name?" she asked.

"No. I figured you could name him."

She looked at the bear. "Is you, yes?"

Clint shrugged. That had kind of been the idea, but... He'd been at the mall, dragged there by Mrs. Sullivan to help keep an eye on the boys while she did a few errands that she couldn't put off, and he'd seen the store where you could stuff and dress your own teddy bear, and he thought maybe it would be a good gift, something for Natasha to hold when he couldn't be there with her, especially with how hard things had been for her lately, whether she admitted it or not. 

"So I can call him Clint." She looked at him, obviously trying to fight a smile. "Clint _Bear_ ton."

Clint groaned. "That's like a joke _I_ would make," he said.

"I learn from best," Natasha said. "Yes. Clint Bearton." She tucked him back into the bag carefully, and slid the card in beside him, then leaned over and kissed him. "Thank you," she whispered. "Is perfect."

"You're welcome," Clint said. "I just... I'm glad you like it."

"Where we are going now?" she asked. "There are no good movies. I looked."

"I don't know," Clint said. "I'm kind of... I don't have as much money as I thought."

She looked at him, her eyebrows and the corners of her lips drawing down. "When we have ever needed money?" she asked. "Drive. I will tell you where to go."

He didn't argue. He just drove, and parked when she told him to park, and had no idea where they were exactly when they got there. Maybe it was because there were actually more lights than just the occasional street lamp, or maybe it was because there were people on the streets, picking their way around puddles and ice patches on the sidewalks.

Maybe he just didn't want to remember. 

"Here," she said, stopping and turning to face him. "This is where. Do you remember?"

Clint looked around. It felt like they were kind of in the middle of nowhere, just a corner in a neighborhood that slid from commercial to residential, and there wasn't anything that distinguished it from any other corner that he could tell.

"You find me here," Natasha told him when he didn't answer. "Last year."

"Oh." Clint felt like all the air had been sucked from his lungs. "Oh."

Why would she want to come back _here_ , of all places? She could have chosen any place, just about, and he would have taken her there, and she'd chosen to return to the spot where he'd found her, broken and bleeding, on the edge of completely falling apart, a year ago today. Why?

_I didn't want you to think I forgot,_ she signed, as if she'd somehow managed to read his mind, which was obviously impossible but she had a knack for answering his thoughts that was more than a little unsettling. _I've been so caught up in other things... I guess I **did** forget, but I didn't want you to think that I'd forgotten how important this day is to me. To us._

_It's okay,_ Clint replied. _Seriously, 'Tasha, it's not a big deal. I just wanted to do something nice for you, to get your mind off of everything for a little while. I didn't expect anything, and I didn't do any of this to make you feel guilty._

_I know,_ she said. _I know that. I just... It's been a year. It's been a year since you saved me for the..._

_You saved yourself,_ Clint said, but she didn't seem to notice.

_... second, I guess, but it's more than that, really, but we'll say second time, in as many months. It's been a year since you gave me something I can never repay, and—_

_You gave me your **heart** ,_ Clint argued. _I know I can be dense, but even **I** could figure out the symbolism in that, and what more—_

_You gave me **hope** ,_ Natasha interjected. _You gave me hope when I had none, when I thought that there was no way anyone would ever..._ She stopped, her hands suspended mid-air. She looked away, blinking hard, her jaw clenched. _You saw me. You saw the mess that I was, saw it written all over my face and my body what I was, what they'd made of me, and..._ She swallowed, looked him in the eye again. _You wanted me anyway. You kissed me anyway._

_I loved you,_ Clint said with a shrug. _I was in love with you. I still am. It was... I didn't do it for a long time because I wasn't sure if you would want me to. I didn't want to be another man touching you when you didn't want it, forcing something on you that you weren't ready for or didn't want. I didn't want to ruin everything we had because I thought maybe it could be more. But then... I don't know. I just... I had to take the chance, I guess. I knew it was stupid, but I had to do it anyway._

_It's the best stupid thing you've ever done,_ Natasha said. _Now do it again. Please._

_Well since you asked so politely..._ Clint teased, grinning as she pulled him down and their lips met.

"I love you, Clint Barton," she whispered into his ear, and repeated it again in Russian (or he assumed that's what the words meant) and pressed the sign to his chest, so that there was no way for him to misunderstand.

"I love you too, 'Tasha," he told her, and it felt like a promise so he sealed it with another kiss.


	34. Chapter 34

"I thought this was supposed to be a vacation," Clint grumbled, fumbling through one of the tool boxes for a flathead screwdriver and coming up empty. "How is it a vacation if we're spending the entire time at school?"

Carol laughed and handed him the necessary tool, even though he hadn't actually told her what he was looking for. It was a knack she had that was a little bit eerie, but he was willing to overlook that since it saved him having to keep searching. "We had the weekend, and Monday," she pointed out. "And yesterday, since it snowed."

"Yeah, but lost Friday instead," Clint said. "Because Pepper's having a meltdown and is absolutely convinced that if we don't rehearse at least three times this week, it's all going to fall apart and the show will come to a screeching halt."

"Speaking of..." Carol said, cocking her head. 

And yes, there is was. Pepper's voice somewhere in the auditorium, screeching. Or... not screeching, not exactly, but speaking in that sharp tone that she sometimes managed that Clint found very hard to understand. (He wasn't sure that anyone but dogs could understand it properly.) "It's not one of ours, is it?" he asked. "Tell me it's not one of ours."

"It's not," Carol said. "You've got three guesses, and the first two don't count."

Clint snorted. "Oh." He wondered what Tony had done to send Pepper into the stratosphere this time. Sometimes he got the feeling that Tony took the brunt of Pepper's frustration with everything in general, whether he was really the one to blame or not. He was just in charge of the lights, after all, and how badly could he mess _those_ up? They weren't even _on_ yet. So unless he'd made some quote-unquote improvements that Pepper didn't approve of (or that might possibly turn the school into an inferno...) he couldn't see what there was to be so angry at Tony about.

But Tony was a safe target, because he would just stand there and take it and laugh it off later. It just rolled off of him like water off a duck's back, barely leaving a trace. Or if it did bother him, he didn't really let on. 

"We should get this done," he said, holding up the screwdriver and going to make a quick fix to a set piece that had started wobbling when one of the actors had accidentally run into it. The actors were on a fifteen minute break. Clint envied them; it didn't feel like the crew _ever_ got a break. There was always something to be fixed, something to be tended to, and he was supposed to be learning various cues and he was really starting to worry that he was going to forget something critical during one of the shows and everything would come crashing down (possibly literally, in the case of the set) and it would be all his fault and he would never hear the end of it.

"I think maybe we should reinforce it," Carol said. "Here and here. I don't trust them not to run into it again, and the last thing we need is the whole thing falling apart." She pushed herself up to standing. "I'll go find something to brace it with."

"Thanks," Clint said, inspecting it and deciding yeah, she was most likely right. It couldn't hurt, anyway.

They were just finishing up as the actors came back from their break, so they retreated to the wings and leaned over the script, making notes as they went. Clint didn't say it, but really, Carol should be in charge back here. He was struggling, and she was always on top of things, but every time he tried to suggest it, she changed the subject. He couldn't really blame her; why would she willingly taken on a job that would mean having to face the wrath of Pepper if anything went wrong?

"When do I have to have this figured out by?" he asked.

"Friday is the first run-through," Carol said.

"Isn't it early for that? The show isn't for a month."

"Less than three weeks, actually," Carol said. "It's crunch time."

"Oh." He'd lost track of time, apparently. The end of the year was coming up more quickly than he'd expected, and although he was holding on to good enough grades...

He shut down that line of thought; he couldn't afford the distraction of letting his mind wander to all of the other possible ways he might fail. One disaster at a time.

As if on cue, the stage door opened, flooding the wings with light that Clint really hoped couldn't be seen on stage or he would hear about it. He looked over his shoulder to see who it was, as usual praying that it wasn't one of the stage crew. They were finally starting to get themselves together, working as a team and knowing what they needed to do, getting things done right the first (okay, sometimes second) time instead of the fourth or fifth. 

But it wasn't one of his crew. In fact, one of his crew was trying to stop the intruder, or tell her that she needed to be careful when opening the door, or something, but she just came pushing past without even bothering to say 'excuse me'. 

Jessica. He figured that she was looking for Carol, and he hoped that Carol would remind her of backstage etiquette, because he didn't really want to be the one to have to do it. Not that he was afraid of Jessica; it was just that she could get really stubborn about things, and he didn't know how to work around that with her like he did with Natasha. 

Carol looked up and saw her too, glanced at Clint, who lifted one shoulder and let it drop, telling her in a single gesture that if she needed to go, she could, but to come back, especially if it wasn't urgent. She started to get up.

But they'd both been wrong. Jessica wasn't looking for Carol. She planted herself in front of Clint, eyebrows up and arms crossed. "You need to come now," she said, her voice too loud until she realized how loud it was. 

"What happened?" he hissed. 

"Natasha," she said. "I tried, but..." Her face said it all. Whatever was going on, it was more than she was able to, or wanted to, handle. And Clint couldn't really blame her. 

But what the hell could have gone so wrong? He shoved the binder containing the script with all of their notes and markings into Carol's lap. "Sorry," he said. "I'll be right back."

"Don't count on it," Jessica said, and he wasn't sure whether it was aimed at him or Carol or both. 

He followed her out into the hall. "What's going on?"

"She... lost it," Jessica said. "She's not throwing scissors or anything, but... she might if I hadn't hidden them all from her."

"What _happened_?" Clint asked. 

"I don't know," Jess replied. "I wasn't there. I ran to the bathroom. I was gone for maybe five minutes, and when I came back she looked like she was ready to kill someone, and when I tried to talk to her she just _looked_ at me, didn't say anything, just _looked_ , and if looks could kill..."

"Okay," Clint said. "Just... I'll see if I can get her to talk to me." He didn't really have high hopes. If Natasha had shut herself off, he wasn't sure he knew how to reach her. Not here, anyway. Not when they had jobs to do and they couldn't just walk away from them.

He found the room that the costume crew was using and found it empty except for a rack of costumes, several sewing machines, a pile of costumes on a chair... and Natasha. Natasha, standing in the middle of it all with her hands in fists at her sides and a look that was at once blank and murderous in her eyes.

"Hey," he said, approaching slowly. "You look ready to kill someone."

Her gaze slowly shifted to him, and her jaw set. "Why you are here?" she asked. "I tell Jessica to find Pepper, not you."

"Pepper? Why?"

"Because," Natasha said. "I am done. I am done with this. She can find someone else to do this. I will not. I am done."

Clint glanced around quickly, making sure that there really were no scissors, or anything else that might be able to be used as a weapon, around. Not that he thought Natasha would hurt him, except... Well, she might. If she felt threatened enough. And there was a chance – small, but a chance – that she would, if he got too close or said or did the wrong thing, that she might decide he was a threat. So he stayed back.

"What happened?" he asked. 

"Nothing happen. I just am tired of this. I never said I would be in charge of all of this, and half of the people who are supposed to help, they do not come. I call them, they are busy, they are sick, they forget and have no ride... They don't care. Fine. They don't care, I don't care. Done. Finished."

"Okay," Clint said. He knew that she couldn't really quit now, and he didn't really think she wanted to. But better to accept it at face value. "Did anything else happen?"

"Look around you," she snapped. "You see all of this?" She jabbed a finger in the direction of one of the piles. "All of this must be fixed. Too long, too short... this one is doing things he is not supposed to be doing, rips pants. Now I must fix, because he is stupid. And _this_." She grabbed up a dress and held it out in front of her. "This I have done. We measure at beginning, we make dress. She try on, it fits okay. One, two more things to do and is done. No problem, I do. Is done, she try on again... is a little tight. I think, okay, maybe I make mistake, I let out. She try on again, is still tight. I know I do not make mistake, but I let out again. She try on today? Is too tight _again_ and she say, 'Oh, I am sorry, is so much pressure, I am so nervous, I keep eating, I am sorry.'" Natasha threw the dress back on the pile. "Sorry? What good is sorry? There is no more room to make bigger. I don't care how nervous you are, if you know you are doing it, eating too much, just _stop_. Is simple. Just stop. Then I do not have to find way to make dress bigger when there is no way. But no, why anyone would think of that, that things they do make more work for other people? Why they would think about anyone but themselves when obviously the world, it revolve around them because they are _star_?"

"I'm sorry," Clint said, then grimaced, realizing it was the wrong thing to say. "I mean—"

"Sorry? Why _you_ are sorry? You are not _cow_ who cannot stop eating! You are not the one makes problem. Sorry is just word, sorry means _nothing_ , and I do not want to hear sorry. I want to hear—" She made a sound that was mostly growl, with possibly a little bit of suppressed scream mixed in.

"Is there something I can do to help?" Clint asked. 

"Yes," Natasha said. "Find Pepper. Tell her I am done."

Clint looked at her, at the stiffness of her spine and neck, the brittle look in her eyes, the way her jaw was clenched like she was grinding her teeth to keep from saying something more, and decided that arguing with her wasn't going to work, and maybe she was right. Maybe everyone was expecting too much. It wasn't like this was the only thing that Natasha had going on. It wasn't the only thing that _any_ of them had going on, but there was only so much a person could do, and if she wanted to be done with this, if this was too much, then didn't she get to decide that?

Except he wasn't really sure that she meant it. He wasn't sure that she wouldn't change her mind and regret it, since all of their other friends were involved. He wasn't sure that she could actually let it go when there was no one else to take over. 

"I'll go talk to her," Clint said. "And then we'll go, okay?"

Natasha looked at him, searching his face, then nodded. "Okay."

Clint went to find Pepper, but not to tell her that Natasha quit. He didn't feel good about having lied to her, but it wasn't a complete lie. He _was_ going to talk to Pepper, to try to intervene on Natasha's behalf, but he didn't want to throw everything into chaos when he wasn't absolutely sure that her mind was made up. 

Luckily, the musical director was working with the cast when he got back to the auditorium, so Pepper wasn't actually in the middle of anything. She saw him approaching, though, and brought up her clipboard like it could defend her from whatever he had to say. "What now?" she asked, like there was no way that he could be coming to her with anything but bad news.

"Half of... more than half of Natasha's crew didn't show up today," he said. "She's kind of flipping out. She's got a lot to do and only Jessica and maybe one other person to help her do it. She's... Well, she already talked to them, and they're making excuses. Do you think maybe after rehearsal you can call them, kind of remind them that they made a commitment?"

Pepper's eyebrows went up. "None of them called _me_ to say they weren't going to be here. Did they call her?"

"I'm not sure," Clint said, "but I don't think so. I think they just didn't show up and she called them."

"Great," Pepper said. "Is she... I mean, is she really upset?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "She says she's done, but..."

"I'll talk to them. I'll talk to her, too, but oh, I will talk to them. If only I could fire them, but that would kind of defeat the purpose, wouldn't it? And they're not getting paid anyway. Darn it." She made a note on her clipboard. "Where is she?"

"In the costume crew room," he said, "but..." 

"But?"

"If you try to talk to her she'll just quit. Is it all right if we leave? For today? Or maybe just for a little bit. Carol can cover for me, and I think Jess can probably do some of the stuff that needs to get done for the costumes, but..." He shrugged.

Pepper sighed, looked toward the stage. "All right," she said. "I'll talk to her later, then, if you don't come back. Just... text me or something."

"Thanks," Clint said. He went back to Natasha, and found her sitting with her head in her hands. "Hey," he said as he approached, not wanting to startle her. "You ready to go?"

She looked up and he saw that her eyes were red-rimmed and wet. "I can't go. Who will finish all this? Not Jessica."

"I thought—" Clint started, confused at the sudden change. He'd expected it eventually, but not this quickly. 

"Pepper will not let me quit," Natasha said. "Not if you say, not if I say, not at all. And is too close. I will not do that to her or anyone." She sniffed and wiped her nose on the cuff of her sleeve. "What you say to her?"

"I told her that you were ready to quit," Clint said, "because your crew didn't show up. She said they didn't tell her they weren't going to be here, and she's going to call them. Hopefully they'll show up tomorrow."

"But this can't wait," Natasha said. "Not all of it."

"Then we'll do it," Clint said.

"Who?" Natasha looked around pointedly. 

"Us. Me and you. I can sew. Enough to make little repairs, anyway. I'll help."

"You have to do your own job," Natasha said. 

"Carol's got it covered for now. Show me what needs to be done."

Natasha looked at him for a long moment, then went over to the pile and pulled out a pair of pants. "Is too long," she said. "I pin up to make right. You can sew hem?"

"I can sew hem," Clint said.

She wrinkled her nose at him. "Don't make fun."

"I didn't," Clint said. "I mean, I didn't mean to. I just..."

She softened. "Is okay," she said, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "Thank you."

"Any time," Clint said. He had a feeling this wasn't the end of it, that it was only the tip of the iceberg and it was going to take a lot of talking to find out what was beneath the surface. Except neither of them were really talkers, were they? 

He threaded a needle and got to work.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for posting late! I didn't turn on my alarm so I woke up late, slipped on ice and scraped up my hand and bruised both knees, was ten minutes late to work and just generally did not have a good morning. But I didn't forget!


	35. Chapter 35

When Clint got to homeroom he was handed a pass. He barely glanced at it, assuming that it was for Mr. Coulson, even though the group usually met on Wednesdays. Maybe something had come up and they were having an extra meeting, since they'd missed a lot of school recently due to snow, but that was hopefully coming to an end. He wouldn't miss the cold or the heavy labor, even if he would miss the money he got from shoveling for people. On the other hand, Mr. Sullivan had already told him that he was welcome to the use of the lawnmower to help other people as well, so hopefully that would help him get through the spring and summer.

When he showed up at Mr. Coulson's office, though, he found that no one was there... including the social worker. He figured maybe he was just early, and went to sit down. It wasn't until nearly ten minutes later, when Mr. Coulson came in and saw him, and glanced around like he thought maybe he'd forgotten something, that Clint realized maybe he wasn't in the right place after all.

"I'm sorry," Mr. Coulson said. "Did we have an appointment? Or did you need something? You know my door is always open, but..." 

"I got a pass," Clint said, pulling the wrinkled piece of paper out of his pocket. "I... didn't actually read it," he admitted.

"It's not from me," Mr. Coulson said. 

"Yeah... kinda figured that out," Clint admitted. He finally looked at what was printed on the slip and frowned. "What the f—what do they think I did now?" he muttered. 

"Who is it for?" Mr. Coulson asked. "Principal Fury?"

"No," Clint said. "Guidance office. I don't need guidance, and I ain't done anything that would make them think I did."

"It could just be about choosing classes for next year," Mr. Coulson pointed out. "Especially given the fact that you're a non-traditional student, they need to make sure that you've fulfilled all of the requirements to graduate before the end of next year. I know that some of them were waived so that you didn't end up even further behind your peers, but they like to check." He smiled. "Don't worry, it's something they do with all students. Go on over; you're probably late."

Clint went. He pushed open the door to the guidance center and found his guidance counselor (who he was pretty sure didn't like him and would rather not have anything to do with him and his messy past and academic record or lack thereof) waiting for him at the front desk. "Follow me," she said, and turned to go back to one of the little offices that didn't really have walls or doors and basically anyone could hear anything that was said if you listened closely enough... or at least Clint assumed that to be the case since he couldn't really decipher much of what he heard unless he was really focusing.

He slumped into a chair across the little round table that dominated the office-cube looked at her expectantly. She looked right back at him like she was waiting for something, and he figured out that she probably thought he should apologize for being late. 

She was probably right, but he didn't feel like saying he was sorry when he wasn't really, and anyway he didn't particularly feel like playing passive-aggressive games. Finally she sighed and gave up. "I was reviewing your file," she said, "and things look pretty good as far as meeting all of your requirements for graduation, as long as you pass all of your classes," she said. 

"I'm passing," Clint said. Some classes he wasn't passing _well_ , but he was passing, and a C was average, right? He was okay with being average. 

"Yes, I saw that, too. There's still room for improvement, of course, but we've still got a few months left, and I have every confidence that if you put in the effort, you can pull up your grades in the classes where you're struggling. There's no reason that you can't manage at least a B in all of your classes if you just apply yourself." She said it with a smile but it sounded like a threat, like if he didn't she was going to come after him because she would look like a failure.

It made him want to fail just to spite her, but maybe he was reading too much into it. 

"I also see that you've been working on the school musical, which is great. It would be nice to see some other extracurriculars, but I do know that the drama club can be very time-consuming, and in your case, I wouldn't want you to spread yourself too thin. So tell me, Mr. Barton, why I'm still concerned about you?"

Clint barely managed to suppress a groan. She sounded like his therapist... or _a_ therapist, anyway, since his had pretty much learned not to do shit like that anymore. It never got her anywhere, and it only got him annoyed, which was pretty obviously counterproductive. And he couldn't be the only one who didn't go in for that kind of bullshit guessing game, could he?

"Look," he said, "I know I grew up in a circus but I ain't a psychic."

"I'm not," his counselor said. "I'm _not_ a psychic."

"I didn't think you were," Clint replied, knowing what she meant and not caring. As if his grammar was what was at issue. "And neither am I. So how about instead of wasting time you just tell me why you're concerned when, far as I can tell, I'm doing everything I'm supposed to be doing, and I _ain't_ even sucking at it."

"There's no need for the language, Mr. Barton," she said. 

"Sucking?" Clint rolled his eyes. "That ain't language."

He could see her hackles going up (or they would have if she had hackles) and how she had to force herself to get them back down. He got under her skin, and he didn't know why. He'd never really been a problem for her as far as he knew; everything he'd done wrong, mostly, had been dealt with by Mr. Coulson or Mr. Fury. And if this somehow didn't have to do with school and was about home instead, wouldn't the Sullivans go to one of them, rather than to his guidance counselor? Or his therapist, maybe? 

"First, I don't see that you've signed up to take the SATs," she said. "Unless you signed up recently and it just hasn't been updated yet?" 

"What are the SATs?" Clint asked. Not that he didn't know... except he didn't, entirely. He knew it was a big test that you had to get up early on a Saturday to take, and that it had something to do with college. He knew that it was a big deal and people like Pepper freaked out about it, and people like Tony could ace it in his sleep if he bothered to try, but people like Tony probably didn't even have to take it if they didn't want to because money would get them in wherever they wanted to go. And he knew that it came up in English class a lot lately, all kinds of words they were supposed to know to make sure that they got a good grade... score, whatever... so that they didn't fuck up their entire future at age sixteen.

Joke was on them, because his future had been fucked by age six.

"It is a test that is taken by all – or the majority – of high school students during their junior year, and sometimes again in the fall of their senior year, that gives them an aptitude score that is considered by colleges when making admissions decisions. It is very important that any college-bound student takes it, and we recommend taking it early so that you have the opportunity to re-take the test if you aren't satisfied with your score," she explained. "Of course, that leads me to an additional concern, which is that we haven't actually sat down and discussed your post-high school plans."

"That's because I ain't made 'em yet," Clint said, and now he really was just trying to irritate her, because he didn't like the fact that _she_ was getting under _his_ skin now. "I've still got another year in this place, right? So why bother making plans now when probably they'll all be shot to sh—hell by then anyway? A year, year and a half is a long time."

A year and a half could be a lifetime, practically. It certainly felt like it for him; that's about how long he'd been with the Sullivans, and going to school, and known Natasha. And sometimes it felt like everything that came before it had just been a dream. Sometimes a good one, sometimes a nightmare, but that was probably just how life went, right?

She pursed her lips. "It's not quite as simple as that," she said. "You're right that a lot can change between now and then, but it doesn't negate the necessity of planning for the future. For example, the SAT needs to be taken now, so that you have the opportunity to take it again in the fall, and college applications will all, or mostly, be turned in by this time next year, and you'll be waiting to hear back from the colleges that you've applied to as to whether or not you—"

"What if I don't?" Clint asked. 

She stopped, frowned. "What do you mean?"

"What if I don't apply to college?" he repeated. "What if I don't want to go to college? What if that's not part of my post high-school plan?" 

Her eyebrows were trying to become one with her hairline as she looked at him, her mouth hanging slightly open like he'd just said something that completely boggled her mind and left her speechless. Even he could hear the clock on the wall ticking into the silence. Finally she managed to compose herself. "Well," she said. "What would you do instead?" she asked. 

"Get a job," Clint said. "Landscaping, maybe. Construction." He shrugged. 

"Those aren't..." She frowned. "Certainly those are important jobs, but..."

"But...?" he prompted when she didn't fill in the blank on her own. 

"Well, I know that you haven't always had an easy time in school, and there have been times when you've struggled with classes and grades, but there really isn't any reason why you should rule out the possibility of college," she said. "And I know that there are... complications, that it's harder for you to do things than other students, but again, you really shouldn't sell yourself short."

"You didn't answer my question," Clint said. "What's wrong with wanting to work in construction? Why are you so damned determined to get me to go to college when I don't even _want_ to go to college? Waste four years of my life learning a bunch of crap that ain't gonna get me anywhere in life, and have to pay for it? What's the point?"

"The point is that in order to get ahead in the world, you really need an education, and—"

"And ain't that what you're supposed to be giving me right now?" he demanded. "Ain't that why I'm here? Not _here_ here, because while I'm _here_ I ain't actually learning a damn thing. You're actually _keeping_ me from learning because I'm supposed to be in class right now, and I ain't, because I'm talking to you about shit that matters to you but it don't matter to me. You get it? I never wanted to be here, but I didn't get a choice, so I made the best of it, but once I finish here, I'm done. Understand? I know how to read, I know how to write, I know how to add and subtract, and in the real world, you really don't need to know much more than that. So thanks, but no thanks."

He stood up, not caring if he got in trouble for walking out. What were they going to do? Give him detention? Sit him down and give him another lecture? Make him go see the social worker to discuss his anger management issues or lack of motivation or whatever bullshit they came up with? It didn't matter. He didn't care. Nothing anyone said was going to change anything about his future.

Hell, probably he would just end up back with the circus, when things finally fell apart here. When Natasha realized that was all he was good for and that she could do better. She could talk all she wanted about how someday they would go to Russia, she would show him her home... or where she came from; it wasn't home anymore, not really, she said, but she could change her mind about that, too, couldn't she? Or the government could change her mind for her because as soon as she wasn't useful anymore, they could just decide to send her back, couldn't they?

And then what? Then where would he be? He was pretty damn sure he couldn't follow her there, unless maybe there was a Russian circus looking for a marksman. 

Suddenly all of it was too much. He turned and walked out, and he pretended not to hear her calling him back, and there were no security guards or anything that she could enlist to drag him back, so he made it out of the guidance office and into the hall, and he just kept going.

For a moment he hesitated at the outside door, but no, this was his choice, his decision, and dragging her down with him was the last thing he wanted. So he didn't try to find Natasha, didn't even text her. He just left, making his way to the parking lot and sliding into the front seat of his car. He stuck the key in the ignition but didn't turn it, because where did he have to go? He couldn't go home. Home wasn't anywhere. Home was a feeling he'd sunk into a person, not a place, and going to the Sullivans would land him either out on his ass or right back here if he didn't want to lose the roof over his head. 

He could go see if Steve was home, maybe, but he was probably at school or volunteering somewhere or doing something worthwhile with himself because that's what he did. He was a good guy who did good things and who, even at eighteen, knew what he wanted to do with his life. He wouldn't be any help. He would probably just try to convince Clint that his guidance counselor was right, and he needed to get it together, get with the program, follow the script that someone somewhere along the line had decided was the standard that teenagers had to follow.

"Fuck," he muttered. "Fuck." 

He'd had his life all figured out. Sure, he hadn't been the one doing the figuring, but he'd known where he was supposed to be, what he was supposed to do, all laid out in front of him, point A to point B to point C, all the way 'til he died, probably early, probably alcohol involved. It was the path Barney was headed down now, the one their father had gone down before him, and maybe that didn't really recommend it but what alternative was there? 

Was there really nothing between that and Mr. Sullivan's nine-to-five life? House, wife, two-point-five kids, dog? They didn't even have a dog.

_Russian dog is best dog._

The words echoed in his head and he pounded his fist against the steering wheel. _Forget that,_ he told himself. _That was just a fantasy that you wove for each other because you needed something better than reality. But that ain't reality anymore, and you think she even remembers it? You think any of that means anything to her anymore? Get a grip. You walked out on the only life that was ever going to make any sense for you, thinking you could be something different, something better, and now look at you._

He wanted a drink. He wanted a drink, and his bow, and a target. Or a drink and someone to piss him off, give him an excuse...

The thought hit him like cold water being dashed in his face. When had that become who he was? When had he decided that alcohol and violence was the answer? When had running away because the solution to his problems?

When had he become his father?

He opened his door, climbed out of the car. His head ached and he felt shaky, like his joints had turned to Jell-O, but he forced himself to walk anyway, back toward the school. 

He was met halfway by Natasha. _Forget something?_ , she asked.

She meant in his car, he assumed. She thought he'd left something in his car and come out to retrieve it. 

_Sort of,_ he said. She raised an eyebrow, but he couldn't explain. It was too complicated. He _had_ forgotten something, but it wasn't a _thing_ , exactly. He'd forgotten that he had a choice. He always had a choice, and right now he needed to choose to not become the person he'd wanted to get away from his whole life. 

Was school the answer? He didn't know. Was college the answer? He didn't know that, either. 

He didn't even know for sure if the girl standing in front of him, looking up at him expectantly, was the answer for the long term. But for right now, it was a start. 

_It's okay,_ he told her. _We should go in._

She frowned. _You sure?_

_Pepper would kill us if we disappeared,_ he pointed out.

_We could always come back for rehearsal,_ she said.

_That would be like returning to the scene of the crime,_ Clint said. _I think we'd better tough it out._

Natasha sighed. _I guess we'd better._ She slipped her arm around his waist, and he draped his over her shoulders, and they walked like that until they reached the doors, where they separated as if by mutual agreement, but really it was more of a habit.

_I'll see you later?_ He didn't know if she meant for it to be a question, but it was all over her face whether intended or not.

_Yes,_ he said. _See you later._

She was still looking at him a bit strangely, like she could sense that something wasn't quite right but couldn't put her finger on it, but there wasn't time to ask, and he was glad because he didn't think he could explain. Not right now, anyway. Maybe later, or tomorrow, or after the musical. 

His path to his next class took him past the guidance office again, and for a second he considering going in and apologizing, smoothing things over so that he wouldn't get in trouble, but in the end he decided it wasn't worth wasting his breath and opening himself up for another discussion. 

In the end, it didn't matter anyway, because when he got to last period, his teacher handed him a packet of papers. On the top was a note: 'Just think about it.' Underneath was information on registration dates and test times for the SAT. 

He stood there, staring at it, so close to the garbage can and he could make a decision, a statement, once and for all.

He shoved the papers in his backpack and took his seat.


	36. Chapter 36

Less than two weeks from opening night, and it looked like there was a very good chance that the show would not, in fact, go on. It also looked like there was a good chance that Pepper was going to have a honest-to-god nervous breakdown, and no one could do anything about it because she wouldn't let anyone near her. 

Not that she didn't have good reason. A handful of the cast and at least a quarter of the crew were sick. It was just a cold, but it was enough to make people miserable, and to have them missing school (and therefore rehearsals) when it was pretty much essential that they have everyone there. 

Loki took to wearing a scarf that he would plaster dramatically over his mouth and nose any time anyone who could possibly be carrying germs came near him... which was pretty much everyone, it seemed. It was ridiculous, and Clint didn't think that a piece of fabric was really going to stop any kind of virus (or whatever caused colds; he probably should have paid a little more attention in biology) from getting through, but at least the diva stayed healthy.

Natasha, on the other hand, did not. Nor did Jessica, and just like that, the costume crew was basically left in disarray. It was hard to say which of them had caught it first, and if they'd been asked Clint suspected they would have blamed each other, but the end result was that things weren't getting done and Pepper was starting to panic.

_You need to rest,_ Clint tried telling Natasha one day after school. They were taking a break on stage, and for once Pepper didn't have any kind of notes for him, so he'd come to check on Natasha and make sure that she was all right. It was hard to tell with her, because she was trying so hard to be stoic about it all, to not show just how miserable she was, but he could see the faint wince when she swallowed, and the hitch in her shoulders and chest as she fought not to cough. 

_I need to finish this,_ she replied, holding up a dress that needed hemming. _And that, and that, and that._

He couldn't figure out how there could still be so much to do, but even after Pepper read them the riot act (or maybe _because_ she had), the members of the costume crew had dwindled. It was possible they were all sick – at least a couple of them were, and they'd promised they would be back tomorrow – but it still seemed like it was an awful lot of work to have left this close to opening.

_Is there anything I can do?_ , Clint asked. 

_You have your own job to do,_ Natasha said. _And you're interrupting._

He was pretty sure she didn't mean for the words to come off as peevish as they seemed. And anyway, she wasn't wrong. He was keeping her from doing what she needed to do. _Sorry,_ he told her. _I'll see you after?_

She shrugged, then nodded and went back to jabbing the needle through the cloth, her forehead furrowing as she frowned down at it. He hesitated at the door, and just as he was about to step out, he heard, "Wait." He turned, and she motioned for him to come back.

As he approached, she set aside the dress and pushed herself up, and when he was close enough, she held out her arms slightly, silently asking for something he suspected she would never put words to. He slid his arms around her, wrapping her in a hug, and held her close for a long, long moment, until he felt her relax, just a little.

_Better?_ , he asked when her arms loosened and she took half a step back to look up at him.

She nodded. 

_Good._ He kissed her forehead (which felt just a little too warm) and let her go. He was pretty sure the five minutes they'd been given were almost, if not entirely up, and he didn't want to add to Pepper's stress by not being back at least close to on time. _If I see Jess I'll send her back._

_Thank you._ She slumped back into her seat and picked up the needle and thread again with a sigh and a cough.

 

Somehow they made it through the week, but by the weekend Natasha was sick enough that Mr. Fury decided it was probably better if Clint didn't come over. The decision, as far as Clint could tell, was unilateral, and no one liked it much. But they didn't try to argue much, because they didn't figure it would get them anywhere. Once Mr. Fury made up his mind about something, it was pretty unlikely he was going to change it, no matter how stupid and pointless the decision seemed to him.

So Clint stayed home, and tried not to be annoyed by every little thing that the younger boys did. Which was difficult, because Devon seemed pretty damn determined to get under his skin and provoke a fight. The court had ordered that he be allowed to spend February break with his biological mother, and he'd been a pain in the ass ever since. He knew that the Sullivans had been against the idea, but they hadn't really been given a choice. He wasn't actually sure what Devon's feelings about the situation had been, and he wasn't sure why he was so pissed off at everything, all the time, now. All attempts (by the Sullivans, not by him – it wasn't his business and he had his own shit to deal with) to find out if something had happened while he was away had ended with yelling and slammed doors.

Clint couldn't remember if he'd been like that at fourteen; it was entirely possible that he had been. It was also possible that he never would have dared to even attempt to get away with that kind of behavior, because he would have had the shit beaten out of him. But he'd also had a lot more freedom at that age than Devon did; if things got bad he could just walk away, find somewhere else (within the bounds of the circus) to be until things blew over. And he had Barney.

If he was supposed to be filling some kind of big brotherly role for Devon... well, he was pretty sure he didn't have it in him. They didn't get along and they never had. So mostly Clint tried to avoid him and stay out of any conflicts that arose. 

Halfway through dinner, his phone rang, and he got up to answer it without asking to be excused, even though that was a big no-no. He doubted anyone would have heard him over the arguing that was going on, and Connor's increasingly loud objections to the noise and chaos.

"Hello?" he asked, the phone pressed to one ear and his hand clamped over the other to try and drown everything out, until it occurred to him that he could just switch off that hearing aid. 

"Clint?"

"Jess?" He looked at the screen to confirm – he hadn't even noticed the caller ID when his phone first started buzzing.

"Yeah. Um... you should—" She stopped herself, and he could almost hear her frowning, her eyebrows knitting together. "If you can, you should maybe come over."

"I thought Fury decided that it was a no visitors weekend," Clint said. 

"He did," Jess said. "Do you always do what you're told?"

That stopped him, because the truth was, yeah, most of the time he did do what he was told now, and when he thought about it, it kind of irritated him. When had he decided to start letting other people call the shots for him? Not so long ago, he'd basically done what he wanted, when he wanted... and now he spent way too much time and energy trying to do and be what other people wanted. "What's going on?"

"Just... Natasha. She's..." 

He waited for Jess to finish the sentence, to tell him what Natasha was, but no further explanation was forthcoming. "I'll be there soon," he decided. 

"Thanks." Jessica hung up.

Clint went back into the kitchen and over to where Mr. Sullivan was standing, trying to mop up Connor's spilled milk. "I'm going out," he said. It wasn't a question, but he braced himself for the fight when he was told no anyway. Only it didn't come. Mr. Sullivan just nodded. He didn't even say anything about curfew.

He grabbed his coat and got into his car, just sitting back and enjoying the quiet for a minute before turning the key in the ignition and backing out of the driveway. Usually he drove with music, but this time he made the entire trip in silence, soaking it in and letting it wash away his irritation, because the last thing he needed was to bring that into the inevitable confrontation with Mr. Fury. 

He didn't have a key to the front door (although Natasha had joked – or maybe not joked – once or twice about getting a copy of hers made for him, and the door was locked, so he was forced to ring the bell. He hoped that either Jessica or Natasha would answer, and maybe, somehow, he could just slip upstairs unnoticed.

No such luck. "What are you doing here?" Mr. Fury asked when he opened the door. "Natasha is—"

"Sick and needs her rest," Clint finished for him. "I know."

"And I—"

"Said that they weren't allowed to have visitors this weekend. I know that too."

"And yet you're still here," Mr. Fury said.

"Yup."

"Because...?"

"Because Natasha is sick and needs her rest," Clint said. "And she sleeps better when I'm here."

Mr. Fury didn't like it. Clint could tell he didn't like it, and he especially didn't like it because he couldn't argue with it. For a second, he thought that the principal-turned-foster father was going to block his path, send him away anyway, but finally he stepped aside. "She needs to rest," he said. "And eat." The faintest hint of a smile flickered at the edge of his mouth. "Probably not in that order."

"I'll take care of her," Clint said. It was what he did, after all, and what she would do for him if the roles were reversed. Probably. Although she would have a harder time of it because the Sullivans would be less likely to let her in the house in the first place. 

He went upstairs and knocked on her door. "It's me," he said, and cracked the door open slowly, just in case she wasn't ready for him to come in for whatever reason. He would have waited for her to tell him it was okay to come in, but he wasn't sure she could actually speak loud enough for him to hear through the door without sending herself into a coughing fit.

"What—" she started, but it came out a croak. _What are you doing here?_

_I convinced Fury to let me come take care of you,_ he said, leaving Jessica out of the equation in case Natasha decided that she'd overstepped her bounds or something. If Natasha was going to be angry at anyone, let it be him or Mr. Fury. It would be a lot less... explosive that way. 

_You shouldn't be here,_ Natasha said. _You might get sick too._

_Pretty sure that if you're contagious, I've already caught it,_ Clint said. _Anyway, I feel fine._

_Still,_ Natasha said, but nothing more than that, and she didn't protest when he came over and sat on the edge of her bed. 

_Have you eaten?_ , he asked. 

She shook her head. _I haven't even showered,_ she told him with a grimace.

_Why don't you do that, and I'll make you something to eat?_

Natasha wrinkled her nose like she wasn't sure she wanted to do anything of the sort, but she shoved the covers off of her legs and swung them down to the floor anyway, going to her dresser to pull out clean pajamas to change into. 

_What do you want to eat?_ , he asked. 

_Doesn't matter. Whatever._

He waited until the bathroom door was closed and he thought he heard the water come on before going downstairs. After a quick looking in the cabinets and refrigerator, he decided to go with something easy to make (and eat), which he hoped wouldn't be too rough on her throat. Soup probably would have been the best idea, but he couldn't make it front scratch and chicken soup from a can grossed him out. So he made scrambled eggs and toast for her (and himself while he was at it, since he'd only eaten half of his dinner), and brought them upstairs (even though they weren't usually allowed to have food upstairs). 

She was just getting out of the shower, and she eyed the plate suspiciously, but ate what was offered without complaint. When she was done, Clint took the plates back downstairs and returned, picking up her hairbrush to untangle the knotted red curls... a process that was complicated by the fact that she didn't seem inclined to remain upright, preferring to lean back against him. 

Finally he just gave it up as good enough, and slid his arms around her, kicking off his shoes and pulling the covers over both of them. He started a movie on her laptop, one they'd seen a million times before, not even bothering to put on the subtitles because neither of them was paying attention to it anyway. It was just background noise and something to aim their eyes at because Natasha was too tired for conversation, and Clint wasn't sure there was anything much to talk about anyway.

He was pretty sure that Natasha dozed off a few times, and finally it got late enough that it seemed like a reasonable time to actually go to sleep for the night, so he got up and switched off the lights and took out his hearing aids before curling up with her again. 

She rolled so that her back was to him, her spine pressed into his chest, and he curved around her, kissing the back of her shoulder and neck as she settled. Under other circumstances... but she was clearly miserable, and it was hard to tell when he couldn't hear the difference between stifled coughs and whimpers. 

"It's all right," he told her. "I'm here. I have you."

Despite what he'd told Mr. Fury, neither of them slept well that night.


	37. Chapter 37

"So tonight is opening night?" Bobbi asked, looking around at all of them. They were hunched, curled, and sprawled in various poses that betrayed how tired they were. It had been a long few days of rehearsals. The cast had had last night off – dark house, they called it – but that hadn't meant the crew got a break. There were last minute things to be checked and fixed, and re-checked and fixed again, and they'd been there until nearly dinner time. Tony had wanted to go out after, but they'd all vetoed the idea.

"No," Loki said, his voice dripping disdain. "Today we do a performance for the eighth graders. It's like a final dress rehearsal, but it doesn't really _count_. _Tomorrow_ is opening night." He fussed with the fringe at the end of his scarf (which he still hadn't given up wearing even though the plague that had attacked the drama club had subsided into a few lingering sniffles and coughs.

"Well, good luck anyway," she said.

Loki hissed. "You don't say _good luck_ ," he said. "It's 'break a leg'." 

Bobbi lifted an eyebrow, and Clint couldn't help wondering if she'd actually known that and was just trying to tweak him. "Well I hope you in particular break both of yours." 

It was hard to tell if she was joking.

Mr. Coulson came in then, and started talking about something, but Clint zoned out. Truth be told, he wasn't feeling all that great, but he was soldiering through because what choice did he have? He had to be in school to do the show today, and he had to be there tomorrow and Friday, too, because if you didn't show up you didn't get to participate in after school activities. Monday, though... Monday he had no intention of showing up... except he had to, to break down the set. Damn it.

He let his head tip to rest against the back of the couch and closed his eyes. He only meant for it to be for a second, but the next thing he was aware of was everyone staring and laughing at him as Natasha gently shook his arm. "Time to go," she said. "One more period, then show."

Clint groaned and flipped off the rest of the group as he pushed himself up from the cushions, Natasha supporting his elbow as he wobbled on his feet. She cocked her head slightly, eyebrows raised, but he shook his head. He was fine... or if not fine, okay enough that she could let him go. He wasn't going to topple over or anything.

She walked with him to his next class even though it took her out of her way, and hesitated when she should have been turning to run back across the school. _It'll be over soon,_ she signed. _Only a few more days._

_And we can sleep in on the weekend,_ he said. _Don't worry._

She pursed her lips like she wanted to say something in response, but the bell warning them that they only had one more minute forced her to get moving before she could put whatever it was into words.

 

The show that afternoon was... well, not a complete disaster, in Clint's estimation. Pepper seemed to have a different opinion as they gathered afterward in the auditorium and she began to rattle off a long list of notes – some to the actors, but most to the crew. Missed cues, microphones not coming on in time, others not being turned off when they should have been, a costume malfunction that had nearly caused her a heart attack as she was forced to worry whether one of the actors was going to flash the entire middle school audience and cause a riot. The list of things that needed to be fixed before tomorrow seemed endless, and it felt like way too many of them were directed at Clint.

Carol, sitting beside him, kept a list. When Pepper finally wound down with a final, 'But other than that, great job, guys! Everyone get some rest tonight!', she looked at him and smiled. "It could have been worse," she said. 

"Really?" Clint asked. "How?"

"We could have had a completely wrong set piece out there, or had an actor not show up on stage at all, or had something break. Really, it's not that bad. Most of it is little stuff, and now we've made the mistake and we won't make it again. Anyway, a bad dress rehearsal means a good opening night. That's what they say, anyway."

Clint thought she was being a little too optimistic about that, and who were 'they' anyway? They (meaning him and the crew) seemed to be pretty damn good at making the same mistakes repeatedly, actually. "Right," he said. "Is there anything that we need to do right now?"

She looked over the list again and shook her head. "Doesn't look like it. What time is call tomorrow?"

"Six."

She scrunched up her face, considering. "Either we can stay for maybe an hour after school tomorrow, or have them come in at five to go over things, work out the kinks."

"Okay," Clint said, not sure why Carol was looking at him so expectantly. 

"So... which is it? You need to decide before they leave, or you'll have to track them all down tomorrow, or text everyone or something tonight and hope that they get it and read it."

"Why do—"

"Because you're the _stage manager_ ," Carol said, a hint of frustration creeping into her voice. "You're in charge here, not me. And I don't mind helping you out, but officially, it's your job, and therefore, your decision."

_And your fault if it all goes wrong,_ Clint figured she wasn't saying. But she was right. It was his job, and he'd have to step up because he couldn't keep expecting her to do it for him. So he told the crew that they would need to stay after school for an hour or so the next day, since he figured it would panic Pepper less if they weren't doing it at the absolute last possible second... and also if it took longer than expected he could always have pizza delivered or something for dinner and just feed them here, rather than sending them home to eat and return.

Natasha had a big garment bag full of costumes that she had to take come with her to attend to, and she didn't look happy about it. She made a face at him as she dumped them into the back seat of his car, more of a grimace than a smile, and once she was settled into the passenger's seat he reached out to push back a strand of her hair. _I know the feeling._

_It wasn't this hard last year,_ she said.

_We only painted sets last year,_ Clint pointed out.

_Maybe next year we should stick to that._

_Pepper will never let us,_ he replied, but he wasn't sure if she saw because her head fell back against the headrest and her eyes closed to slits. He shrugged and put the car in gear, not thinking to ask until they were almost out of the parking lot if he was supposed to be giving Jessica a ride home, too.

"Carol's giving her a ride," Natasha said. Then, a second later, "At least I hope she is."

"I don't think Carol would leave her stranded, and her car was still in the parking lot," Clint said. "She'll be fine."

"Good." Natasha slumped back in the seat again, propping herself against the door, and Clint didn't try to talk to her for the rest of the trip. 

 

But Carol's prediction – or the old folk wisdom behind it, or whatever it was – turned out to be true. All of the problems they'd had during the show the day before seemed to vanish, and the show went off without a hitch... or at least without any hitches that Pepper could notice. Sure, there might have been one or two flubbed lines, but nothing so bad that the audience would notice, and there were a few last-second scrambles for props when an actor realized they didn't have it mere moments before their cue, but overall, things went smoothly.

And so it went on Friday, and again on Saturday, and before each performance when everyone gathered together before curtain for their pre-show pep talk, Pepper was a little peppier. Instead of things that had gone wrong, she rattled off things that had gone right, and told them all how awesome they were and how proud she was of everyone, and how the people she'd talked to all thought the show was phenomenal. It was mostly for the actors, of course, but they were the ones whose egos needed the most stroking, Clint figured.

On Saturday after the show, there was a cast party, and to everyone's surprise Tony wasn't the one throwing it. He'd been planning on it, but somehow he'd been beaten to the punch – and by Loki, of all people.

"Well _I'm_ not going," Clint heard one of his crew members tell another. "Do you really think he wants _us_ there?"

"Probably not," the other said. "It's a _cast_ party, after all. I'm pretty sure we're not included."

"It's for the cast _and_ crew," Clint said. "Everyone's invited." Officially, anyway. He wasn't sure they were entirely wrong about the fact that Loki would probably prefer that only the cast came. He still thought that the crew was beneath him. What was the word he'd used last year? Minions? (And not the cute kind that looked like little pieces of breakfast cereal or maybe kernels of corn with big eyes and hair, either.) Never mind the fact that without the crew there wouldn't be a show at all.

The only reason that everyone was invited, Clint imagined, was because Pepper would pitch a fit if he did otherwise. 

"Are _you_ going?" they asked him. 

"Yeah," Clint said, although he'd honestly been thinking about skipping it... but telling the Sullivans that he was going, thereby extending his curfew by several hours, and luring Natasha away to somewhere where they could... Well, sleep, probably, if he was being honest. But sleep together, which all of the adults were still being pains about since Natasha was still recovering and also the play was eating up all of their time and everyone was worried that homework was getting pushed aside. (Which they weren't one hundred percent wrong about...) 

"But you're kind of... friends with him, aren't you?"

"I know him," Clint said. _But calling us_ friends _would definitely be pushing it._ "Seriously, though, do you have anything better to do?" They shrugged, looking almost guilty, like they'd been caught in a lie. "It's up to you, obviously, but... not going just kind of gives him what he wants, doesn't it? And it's not like you have to talk to him."

He wasn't sure why he was bothering to try and convince them. Maybe he just didn't like the way that, without saying anything, Loki was managing to bully them into doing something that they should have every right to do. Maybe he just wanted to watch Loki squirm when his party was overrun by people he generally looked down his nose at. Maybe he was just feeling contrary.

"Are we going?" Natasha asked, coming up beside him.

"Yeah, in a minute. Just gotta finish putting these things away."

"You are like sloth," she said, grabbing one of the toolboxes that they'd had to get out to do a quick repair that he didn't want to risk leaving until the next day. "Slooooow." She grinned at him, and it was nice to see her smile, even if there were dark circles under her eyes and her shoulders slumped like she had the weight of the world on them. 

The two crew kids went to get the broom to sweep up the small pile of sawdust that had accumulated, their eyes wide as they watched Natasha, trying to be subtle about it and mostly failing. Clint couldn't help smirking – they looked half afraid, half in awe, and he wanted to say, 'Yeah, I know the feeling,' or 'You don't know the half of it,' or something else but he didn't want to embarrass them so he left it alone.

"Do you need a ride or anything?" he asked them.

They looked at each other, looked at him, then Natasha, then back at him, and silently shook their heads. 

"All right. See you at the party, then, or tomorrow."

"Yes sir," one of them said, then her cheeks flushed. "Um, I mean—"

But Clint had barely heard. His attention was already on Natasha, who was tapping her foot impatiently, her arms crossed, but trying to control a smirk. He reached out and ruffled her hair and had to dodge a jab to his ribs in return.

_Are you sure you want to do this?_ , he asked Natasha when they pulled up near Loki's house, having to park half a block away because of the number of cars already there. _We could just... not._

_You already told your kids that—_

_They're not my **kids** ,_ Clint interjected, alarmed at the idea. _No way. I'm never having kids._

Natasha stopped with her hands in mid-air, caught mid-sentence and mid-sign, and cocked her head. _No?_

_No,_ Clint said. _I'd only fuck them up._

She looked at him, her eyes slightly narrowed, like she was trying to see into his head, read his thoughts and figure out if he meant what he said. Whatever she saw, or decided, apparently satisfied her, because her shoulders dropped and she nodded. _Okay._ And then she picked up again where she'd left off. _You already told them that you would be here, and how would it look if they actually showed up and you weren't?_

_They're not going to come,_ Clint said. _They're too afraid of him._

She snorted. _Anyway, our friends are here. And we're already here. So come on._

Clint got out of the car, although the longer he sat there the more exhaustion set in and the less he wanted to. But he was Natasha's ride (although Jess was probably here with Carol and if need be he was sure that Carol could give her a ride home... except what if there was alcohol and what if she started drinking and couldn't drive anyone anywhere?) and he didn't want to disappoint her and so he followed her down the driveway and up to the front door.

There was a sign that said it was unlocked and to just come in, so he pushed it open and was immediately overwhelmed by the number of people and the sound of voices and music. _I can't..._ he started to say to Natasha, but she wasn't paying attention. The lights were down low and he didn't know where anything was and disorientation set in pretty much immediately. And then he lost track of Natasha in the crowd (it had never seemed like there were this many people in the cast and crew before, but then they'd never all been in this size of a space together before, had they? Not that Loki's house was small, but any house – or room, at least – was small when compared to an auditorium) and he just... gave up.

He found an unoccupied corner of a couch and sat down, switched off his hearing aids and just watched people. It was tempting to close his eyes and really shut it all out (although he could still hear a little, a dull throb of the bass of the music – was it really up that loud or was that just all he could hear? – and a high-pitched whine that he was pretty sure was just his ears, a leftover side effect of the explosion that got worse when he was tired or stressed or exposed to... well, too much noise) but he was afraid he would fall asleep, and although he didn't have a huge amount of experience with high school parties, TV and the movies had taught him that the last thing you wanted to do at one of them was fall asleep. 

So he forced himself to stay awake, and after a while he started making up stories about the people – some he knew and some he didn't – that would make their body language make sense, since he couldn't hear any of the words they were saying. It would have been more fun, he knew, if he'd had someone to share it with, but Natasha had disappeared and there was no one else he could talk to without letting all of the noise back in, and even then it would be hit-or-miss.

Clint wasn't sure how long he sat like that since there wasn't any clocks in his line of sight, and he was too lazy to pull his phone out of his pocket – or maybe he just didn't want to know. Because if it was still early, that would mean he was likely stuck here for a while, and if it was late it would mean that the morning would be arriving all too soon. Tomorrow's show was a matinee so there was only so much he could sleep in. 

Someone tumbled into the seat beside him and he glanced over hopefully, but it turned out it was just a couple of the girls from the cast, talking animatedly with their hands but not in any way that actually formed words. They didn't even seem to notice that he was there, even though one of them was practically sitting _on_ him.

_Was it nice to be that oblivious?_ , he wondered. _To be so sure of yourself that you didn't even think about the fact that other people existed?_ But maybe he was reading too much into it. 

Finally Natasha found him, bringing with her a can of soda. Since there was no room on the couch, she just sat on his lap, and he slid his arm around her without thinking. She handed the can to him and pressed a kiss to his head, her arm looping his neck and her nails raking through the hair at his temple, which was... not good. Rather, it was really good, but not good in public. At all. He pinched her side lightly and she looked at him... and stopped. 

_Sorry,_ she signed. _I didn't mean to be gone so long._

_You don't have to look after me,_ Clint said. _You can go have fun._

She raised an eyebrow. _So can you._

He shook his head. _I'm too tired,_ he admitted. _And my head hurts._

She pushed the soda toward his mouth and he took a sip. He didn't know if it was supposed to help, but it was easier than arguing. Maybe it was. Maybe it would. Sugar and caffeine probably couldn't hurt, anyway. _Why didn't you say?_  
He shrugged. _I was feeling better when we got here._ Which was true-ish, true enough, even if even sort of lying to her made him feel gross inside. 

_Do you want to go?_ , she asked. 

_Do you?_

_I asked you first._

_I don't care,_ Clint said. _Whatever you want._

Her frown deepened. _Don't do that,_ she snapped, if one could snap in sign language (and if anyone could, it was Natasha). _Just tell me what you want. I don't get to make choices for you._

_But..._ , he started, then realized that getting into an argument really wasn't what he wanted to do. Even if by his saying he wanted to leave, he was making a decision for her, wasn't he? Wasn't it the same thing? _I'm ready to go,_ he said. 

_Okay,_ she said. _I'll get our coats. Finish so you don't fall asleep driving._ She pointed to the can he'd balanced next to his leg so he'd have a hand free to sign, then carefully got up so she didn't disturb it.

They left without saying goodbye to anyone; Clint doubted very much whether anyone noticed or cared. As they walked back to the car, he realized that he hadn't even seen Loki the entire time, at his own party. Which seemed strange, but maybe he had some kind of secret lair where he'd been hanging out with the people he actually liked... if any such people existed.

_Will your fake-parents be mad if you don't come home?_ , Natasha asked when they got to her house. _Can you stay?_

They might be... but wouldn't they rather he was safe than driving exhausted? And they hadn't really set a curfew because of the party, so... he would just take the chance. What was the worst that could happen? They grounded him for a few days?

_I can stay,_ he said. 

_Good._

And that was the last thing they said that night, because there was nothing to say as they got ready for bed, and they were asleep practically before their heads hit the pillow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who missed it, I posted a deleted scene earlier this week. It can be found here: [The Movie In My Mind](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1303654).


	38. Chapter 38

On Tuesday Clint woke up with a scratchy throat and lungs that felt like they were burning. It was as if Natasha's cold had laid dormant in his system until the musical was over, lurking there, waiting for him to have time to notice it before knocking him flat. He grimaced as he swallowed and tried to decide if maybe he should just tell Mrs. Sullivan that he didn't feel good and go back to bed. He almost never tried to get out of going to school, so she probably wouldn't argue with him. Devon tried to wheedle his way out at least once a week.

And hell, he wasn't even playing. He really did feel like crap. But what if he felt worse tomorrow? She wasn't going to let him miss more than a day, maybe two, and he remembered that Natasha had definitely gotten worse before she got better. So he dragged himself out of bed, his morning routine seeming to take twice as long as usual, and went downstairs to get coffee. He didn't think he could swallow anything harder than that.

"Are you all right?" Mrs. Sullivan asked when she saw him, frowning. Her hand lifted like she was going to reach out and touch him, maybe to feel his forehead, see if he had a fever, but she didn't quite complete the gesture.

"Just tired," he said. "I'll be okay. Musical's over, so..." Clint shrugged. "I gotta go or I'll be late." 

"All right," she said, her forehead still furrowed with concern as she handed him his lunch. "Have a good day." 

"Yeah, I'll try," he said, and went out to his car, starting it and then leaning back in the seat and closing his eyes, just for a second, under the auspices of giving his car time to warm up. It was warm enough that it probably wasn't necessary, but it wouldn't hurt.

When he opened his eyes again, five minutes had passed, and he glanced at the house and saw Mrs. Sullivan peering out the kitchen window at him. He waved and she ducked away like she'd been caught doing something that she shouldn't, and finally put the car in gear, backing out of the driveway and making his way to school, glad that he could pretty much do the drive on autopilot by now because thinking required effort, and he didn't have the energy to expend to do much of it.

_You look terrible,_ Natasha said by way of greeting.

_Good morning to you, too,_ he responded, trying to smile but only managing to force one corner of his mouth up. 

_Seriously, are you all right?_ , she asked. 

Clint shrugged. _I think I got your cold._

She took half a step away from him, the gesture more dramatic than she probably intended for it to be – or maybe not. Maybe she did it to be funny. Clint couldn't really tell. _If it was **my** cold, wouldn't you have gotten it sooner?_ , she asked. _I think you caught someone else's cold._

_Maybe,_ Clint agreed. He didn't see that it mattered. _I almost asked to stay home._

_Why didn't you?_

He shrugged again. _I figured I would save it for if I started feeling worse._

_Which you will,_ Natasha told him, which was no kind of comfort at all, but her hand in his was, as she led him out of the lobby and to a hallway where there weren't many people yet. She reached up and drew his head down, pressing a kiss to his forehead. _Tell me if there's anything I can do._

_Nothing,_ he signed, then, _Thank you._

She nodded, then sighed as the bell rang – he really hadn't gotten there much before school was supposed to start – and kissed the tips of her fingers, pressing them to his lips. She didn't wait for him to respond, or even to react, before she turned and left, which was probably better because Clint was sure that he looked like an idiot, standing there blinking in surprise at the uncharacteristically sentimental move. 

He dragged himself through the day, stifling the urge to cough every few minutes because it didn't actually do any good. It didn't relieve the itching feeling in his chest, or the tightness, and after a while it started to make his head ache. Everyone gave him a wide berth, not wanting to catch whatever he had, and he got the feeling that his teachers were just trying to pretend like he didn't exist, like it was easier to just not deal with the fact that he wasn't even really trying not to nod off.

Wednesday wasn't any better, although Mrs. Sullivan had gone out and gotten him some cough drops and a few pocket packs of tissues, so at least he was armed when the cold migrated from his chest up into his head, and now he was blowing his nose all the time along with coughing. 

Thursday, though... Thursday he dragged himself up, feeling like his head was completely clogged with snot, and he kept sneezing. He went downstairs anyway, backpack on his shoulder, dressed for school, and Mrs. Sullivan took one look at him and drew the line. "No," she said. "No, you're not going to school today."

"But—" Clint started, but stopped when she held up her hand.

"I'm glad that you want to go to school," she said. "It shows a change in attitude that is really admirable. However, there comes a point where you have to admit that you are sick, and that going to school at this point would be counterproductive at best. So no, you're not going to school. You are welcome to sit down and have some breakfast – food is important for giving your body what it needs to fight off the virus – but after that, you're going right back upstairs and going back to bed. You can read, watch movies, do whatever you want there, but personally I would recommend trying to get some sleep."

Clint wanted to argue, but the fact of it was that talking was hard; his throat was hoarse and his voice cracked nearly as much as Devon's, which was more than a little embarrassing (even if the younger boys seemed to think it was hilarious). So he just sighed and nodded, pulled out his phone to text Natasha to tell her, ate the oatmeal that was offered (liberally dosed with brown sugar, which she would never allow the younger boys but apparently being sick got you a few perks) and downed the glass of orange juice (which kind of burned a little but vitamin C was supposed to help fight colds, right?) and went back to his room.

The day passed in kind of a haze. He did read some, and watched some TV (including the Food Network – he blamed Jessica for that) and generally didn't move much. Which didn't really make him feel a hell of a lot better, but at least he didn't feel worse.

Friday he didn't even try to go to school, and Mrs. Sullivan didn't even try to wake him up. He slept until the vibrating of his phone nudged him awake. It was Natasha (who else would it be?) texting him to say that she hoped he felt better. He texted back saying that he was okay, just trying to sleep it off. She didn't respond, but probably the passing period between classes had ended and she didn't want to risk getting caught with her phone in class.

He spent most of the day napping, mostly because if he was asleep he couldn't be coughing or sneezing... except when he woke up coughing, and he remembered that from when Natasha had been sick, and the way she'd curled into a miserable little ball when it finally subsided, and how there had been nothing that he could do to make it better.

He could feel it when the boys came home, the vibrations of their feet on the stairs, in the hall, the slamming of doors, and he suspected if he'd had his hearing aids in he would have also heard Mrs. Sullivan telling them to keep it down, that he was trying to sleep. At least he imagined (maybe hoped?) that he would hear that. It was what she would have said if any of the other boys were sick, anyway. Maybe it would be different with him. He didn't know and he didn't really feel like thinking about it. 

He didn't really feel like thinking at all, so he closed his eyes again and let himself drift.

He woke up with a jolt a little while later, grateful for whatever had drawn him back to reality, because he'd been having nightmares, but he'd only been half asleep so he'd known he was asleep, known he was dreaming, and yet there was nothing he could do to get out of it no matter how hard he tried. 

Clint opened his eyes and saw Natasha sitting on the edge of his bed, one hand on his shoulder, shaking him gently. He reached up and took her hand, squeezing it hard and drawing it to his chest, pressing her palm over his pounding heart like she could still it somehow. 

She nudged his hip and jerked his chin towards the wall, silently asking (or telling) him to move over. He shifted, having to disentangle his legs from the blankets somewhat to do so. She tucked herself in beside him, one hand still over his heart while the other encircled his shoulders, drawing his head down to her shoulder. She rubbed her cheek against his head and traced her thumb along the curve of his neck, just holding him, still and gentle, until he finally managed to chase away the last traces of the nightmare he'd been having.

_Thank you,_ he signed. _Bad dream._

_I know,_ she replied one-handed, because the other arm was still around him. _Being sick makes it worse, I think._

He forced himself to sit up a little, freeing her hand so that she could 'talk' properly. He could have just put in his hearing aids but he honestly didn't want to. His ears were aching and subjecting himself to the clamor of the house, even with his door shut (mostly shut, they weren't allowed to shut it completely and it looked like Natasha had actually respected that rule when she came in) was more than he thought he could handle.

_I'm surprised she let you in,_ he said.

_I told her I brought you your homework so if you started feeling better you could work on it over the weekend so you wouldn't be so behind when you came back,_ Natasha told him. _And yes, I actually did bring you your homework. I was thinking if you were feeling better I could come over on Sunday and we could work on it._

"Mm," Clint replied, a non-committal sound. Not that he didn't want Natasha there; now that she was here he didn't want to her leave, but he knew that wasn't going to happen. He just wasn't sure how much he wanted, or would want, to work on homework, on Sunday or at any other time.

_She said thank you, she would give it to you, but I convinced her that I'd already had the cold and I wasn't going to catch it again, and I just wanted to see you for a few minutes,_ Natasha continued.

_And she let you?_ Clint's eyebrows went up. Although things had improved between him and Mrs. Sullivan since Christmas, she still had a tendency to get stubborn about certain things. 

_I'm here, aren't I?_ Natasha smiled and ran her fingers through his hair, rubbing her thumb over his temple. _But I can't stay long._

_Sorry,_ Clint said.

Natasha wrinkled her nose. _For what? For being sick? It's not your fault._

He shrugged. He didn't even know what he was apologizing for. He just felt sorry. Sorry for his sorry state, now and just... in general. Sorry that she was stuck with him when he was like this, even though he hadn't asked her to come. She'd come on her own, and that meant something, right? 

She turned like she'd heard something, and he could see her shoulders rise and fall as she heaved a sigh. _Your fake-mom is calling for me to come down,_ Natasha explained. _She says my ride is probably waiting for me._

_Who drove you?_ , Clint asked. He hadn't really thought about that part. She could have walked here from school (although he wasn't sure what the weather was like out there) but then how would she get home?

_Carol. She and Jess are waiting in the car. I doubt they care if they have to wait another few minutes._

_But Mrs. Sullivan does,_ Clint said. _I guess I'll see you Sunday?_

_I hope so,_ Natasha said, then rolled her eyes. _I have to go. But there's something else I need to give you first._ She got up and left, and Clint pushed himself a little closer to sitting, trying to figure out what she was doing, where she was going so abruptly after saying that there was something she needed to give him first.

She came back with one of the little paper cups from the bathroom and pulled a small bottle from her pocket, dumping its contents into the cup and handling it to him. _Ancient Russian remedy for cough,_ she said.

He raised his eyebrows in a question she didn't answer, but drank it anyway... and immediately coughed. _Ancient Russian remedy, huh?_

_Stolichnaya sounds almost like medicine,_ da _?_ , she replied, spelling out the Russian word. She was grinning at him, and he couldn't help smiling back. _It **does** work, though,_ she told him. _You think they were going to spend extra money on cough medicine in an orphanage when a shot of vodka would do the same?_

He smiled back, and she leaned over him, rearranging his pillows so he could sleep semi-propped up, because it made it easier to breathe, then pulled his blankets up over him. She smoothed back his hair and leaned down to kiss his forehead. _Sweet dreams,_ she wished him, and pressed her lips to his, just for a second, before turning to go.

"'Tasha," he said, his voice a croak. She turned and looked back at him. _Thank you._

She just nodded and left, closing the door behind her.


	39. Chapter 39

The coughing, sneezing, and constantly running nose had all pretty much stopped, but something was still not right, and that something was his ears. They hurt, and they felt completely blocked up and nothing he did seemed to have any effect on them. It was getting to the point where he hated putting on his hearing aids in the morning because it only made things worse, and school was a disaster because he couldn't hear what his teachers were saying half the time, and he was basically avoiding his friends because if he was in any situation where more than one person was talking at once, he was completely lost.

Logically, he should have told someone. 

Clint and logic weren't exactly the best of friends. Hell, half of the time they weren't even on speaking terms. What good had logic ever done him? Most of the best things in his life were the result of the exact opposite – doing the thing that made the least sense. 

It had worked in the past. Why not now?

Anyway, going to the doctor cost money and probably the state paid for it but it was still a pain in the ass for the Sullivans to have to make the appointment and take him because even though he was eighteen and could fill out paperwork and whatever for himself, he couldn't _pay_ for it, and he didn't have his insurance card or whatever. (He assumed he had one... that was something that they did for foster kids, right? Gave them insurance? Who else would have paid for it when he was in the hospital back after the accident? It sure as hell hadn't been his parents.)

And then there was the fact that he didn't like doctors. Or he didn't trust them. Same difference. He'd never gone to the doctor when he was a kid, because his parents were always afraid that he would say something or do something that would make them call the cops, and he'd been taught to fear that above all else.

But damn it, his ears _hurt_ and it would really be nice if they would stop, and—

Clint felt fingers close around his wrist, drawing his hand away from his ear. He'd been rubbing at it again; it was probably red from the friction. It was too cold to go outside to eat lunch, so he'd just switched his hearing aids off as he sat at a table in the corner with Natasha beside him, eating in silence because she was busy finishing up math homework that she'd forgotten about.

_You keep doing that,_ she signed, and the expression on her face made it an accusation. _Why?_

_My ear... itches,_ he replied, not quickly enough.

_Bullshit._ She pushed aside her math book and turned to face him more fully. _Tell me._

_It's nothing, Natasha._

_Bull **shit**_ , she signed again, glaring now. _You've been doing it for days. It's something, and I can't help if you don't tell me what, or if you try to lie. Which, for the record, you're terrible at._

He couldn't tell if she meant the last bit as a joke or not, if he was supposed to smile in response, or if she really meant it and she was really pissed. He suspected the latter, and he didn't feel like smiling anyway. If he did, it might just make his ears hurt worse. Chewing did, sometimes, which was why his lunch was sitting in front of him, barely touched. 

He weighed his options. He could tell her, or...

He could tell her. There really wasn't an option. Not when she was looking at him like that, and not if he didn't want this to turn into a bigger fight than it was worth. Which felt... he wasn't sure how it felt. On the one hand, it bothered him that he was afraid of pissing her off, because if he did she might leave and where would that leave him? On the other, the fact that she cared about him enough to want to turn it into a fight... well, that was something, wasn't it? It meant that he was important to her, just like she was to him. Right?

And being stupid and stubborn, while a born-and-bred Barton trait, wasn't necessarily what he actually _wanted_ to be. 

Natasha's frown deepened as the silence stretched, but then she looked around and back at him, and tucked her books away, packed up their lunches and motioned for him to follow. She led him to Mr. Coulson's office, and because he still hadn't turned his hearing aids back on he wasn't sure what she said, but whatever it was, it got them waved through to the back room.

_Now will you tell me?_ , she asked, like someone 'overhearing' a conversation that there was no way for them to understand had been his concern all along.

Which it hadn't been. Not really. He wasn't even sure _what_ he was worried about, exactly. It wasn't as if she put any more faith in authority than he did. She wasn't going to try to force him to do something that he didn't want to do. And maybe she would have some idea of how to fix it. Some 'ancient Russian cure'. (The vodka _had_ stopped his cough long enough for him to go to sleep, after all.) 

Or maybe he was just sick of suffering in silence. _My ears hurt. They've been hurting since before the cold got bad and they're not getting any better and it's hard to hear and these stupid things,_ he jabbed his finger at his hearing aid, _make it even worse._

Natasha frowned, then slowly, deliberately reached out and removed them from his ears, her touch light and gentle as she dislodged them and placed them into his palm. _How bad is it?_ , she asked.

_I don't know,_ Clint replied. _Bad._ Sometimes it was better, but sometimes it was really, really painful. Like whatever was built up in them would start crackling and shifting and it would feel like someone was driving something sharp straight through his eardrum. (Did he even still have eardrums? He must, if he could hear at all, right?) 

_Bad like it was when it first happened?_

Clint had to think about that. Was it as bad as when he'd first woken up in the hospital and tried to make it escape? He shook his head. _Not that bad._

_But it's not getting better._

_No._

_You haven't told your fake-parents?_ He shook his head, and Natasha sighed. _I think you might have to,_ she said, with what looked like regret. _I think you might need to see a doctor._

_I don't—_ , he started, but she caught his hands, pressed them between her own, kissed the tips of his fingers.

_I know,_ she signed, one handed so that the other could continue to keep his still. _But sometimes you have to._ And something dark passed across her face, behind her eyes, and he didn't know what it was, what she'd had to do or why, although he thought he could probably guess and it sent a flash of rage through him. 

"'Tasha..."

She let go of his hands slowly, reaching up again, tracing her fingers over the curves of his ears before her hands came to rest over them like she could heal him, or like she could block everything out and somehow that would make it better, or... he didn't know what. Her forehead pressed against his, and she looked at him with eyes like the winter ocean, deep and blue and stormy. 

It was if she was trying to will him to read her mind, to know what she was thinking, what she wanted to say, without her having to say it. Maybe she didn't have the words, or maybe she did but to actually say them, or sign them, made them too real.

"Okay," he whispered finally, because even if he didn't know exactly what she was trying to convey, the gist of it was clear – she was pleading with him. Why, he didn't know. Maybe she didn't know either. But those eyes that held his were begging, and he wouldn't, _couldn't_ say no. "Okay. I'll go. I'll tell them, and I'll go."

Her kiss was a thank you. That he understood loud and clear.

 

He waited until after dinner, and then a little longer until the younger boys were in bed, because he didn't want them interrupting, because he knew himself, and he knew that if he asked and it got lost in their chaos, he wouldn't ask again. He went into the living room once all of their bedroom doors were closed (which wasn't a guarantee of anything) and waited until a commercial break in the show they were watching. 

"Uh..." he said. "I, uh, need a favor?"

Mr. Sullivan looked at him first, but Mrs. Sullivan looked at him more intently – or maybe more suspiciously. "What is it?" Mr. Sullivan asked. 

"I need my..." No, there was no way they would just give him his insurance card or whatever it was so that he could take himself. Even though there wasn't anything he could do with it other than go to the doctor, Mrs. Sullivan still wouldn't trust him with it. "I need to, uh, to go to the doctor. I guess."

"Why?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. "What's wrong?"

"My ears started hurting when I got that d—cold, and they haven't stopped and... I can't really hear too well and it's making school kind of a pain in the... uh, ear," he said, smiling crookedly at the lame (and mostly accidental) joke. "No pun intended."

"How long has it been like that?" she asked. "Since you got sick?"

"Yeah, pretty much."

She frowned, shook her head. "I wish you'd told me sooner. With your ears already damaged, that's really not something you want to be messing around with. I'll call the doctor tomorrow morning, let them know that it's urgent, see if we can get you in after school tomorrow." 

"Uh, okay. Thanks."

"Of course." She shook her head. "You really should have said something sooner." 

"Yeah," Clint agreed, because what else could he do? "Sorry."

"Don't be sorry," she said. "Just... for next time."

Hopefully there wouldn't be a next time. He went upstairs to text Natasha and tell her that he'd done as he was told. 

 

The next day he got called to the office halfway through second period. When he got there, he found Mrs. Sullivan standing there. "The only appointment they had was for this morning," she said. "So we need to go now. I'll bring you back afterward to finish the day. Come on."

Clint just blinked in surprise and followed obediently, because he'd been up half the night in pain and he was basically dazed with it and lack of sleep at this point. Even if he wanted to argue (and he really didn't) he wouldn't have been able to do so coherently. 

He climbed into the passenger's seat, wincing as the change in pressure the closing of the doors made his ears throb all over again. He twisted his head, rubbing one against his shoulder. "Is it okay if I...?" He poked at one of his hearing aids, miming take it out.

Mrs. Sullivan frowned slightly, then nodded. "Go ahead."

He pulled them from his ears and tucked them in the pocket of his hoodie. It only gave him a little bit of relief, but at this point, anything was better than nothing. He tipped his head back against the headrest and closed his eyes, not quite dozing as Mrs. Sullivan drove (going exactly the speed limit, he was sure, as always) him to the doctor's office.

The waiting room was mostly empty. Clint slumped into a seat and let Mrs. Sullivan take care of the paperwork. After a couple of minutes, she sat beside him, pulling her phone out of her purse and frowning at the screen. He thought vaguely about asking her what was wrong, but it was probably nothing or none of his business, and anyway he wouldn't be able to hear her answer. 

A minute or twenty (he honestly wasn't sure – probably not too long because his foster mother wasn't getting twitchy) later, she tapped his arm, and pointed toward the door where one of the nurses was apparently calling his name. He put one of his hearing aids back in and followed her. 

After weighing him (which had what exactly to do with his ears?) she led him back to an exam room, took his temperature and blood pressure, asked him a few questions, and then told him to put on the exam gown. She left, and he decided to ignore her instructions because seriously, he did not need to get naked to have someone tell him what was wrong with his ears.

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling, wishing that Natasha was there to talk to, or just to hold his hand... but mostly to tell him what was going on without him having to make the effort to try and not just hear but comprehend. At least if he could _see_ the words...

He wanted to be angry at Mrs. Sullivan, because if she'd gotten him a later appointment he could have brought Natasha with him, maybe, but she hadn't thought of that. Why would she? But he couldn't really blame her because she was trying to get him in as quickly as she could, and wasn't that better in the long run?

Finally the doctor came in (and didn't say anything about the dressing gown that was still on the table next to him) and he looked in his throat and in his ears, frowning and furrowing his forehead, bushy eyebrows bouncing up and down. Clint wondered if he knew that he made faces whiel he was doing exams. Probably not. It was like people who stuck their tongue out when they concentrated – they had no idea they were doing it.

"How long has this been going on?" the doctor asked. 

Clint shrugged. "Couple weeks, I guess?"

"You guess?"

"It's been a busy couple of weeks. I don't know. I'm kind of uses to my ears doing fu—messed up stuff, so I just didn't think much about it until it got bad." _And fuck you for asking,_ he thought, but he bit his tongue on it. It was his job to ask, but he didn't have to be so damned judgment about it.

"Well, you've got two pretty bad ear infections," the doctor said. "I wish you'd come in sooner. With the damage you already have to your ears, letting these go... well, we'll know more once the antibiotics have had a chance to do their job."

Clint froze, a knot forming in his gut. "What do you mean, we'll know more?"

"I mean that once the infection is gone, you'll have to have your hearing tested again, because there's a possibility that it may have caused further damage to your hearing," the doctor said. "If you're having problems with your ears, you need to come in right away. We want to preserve as much of your residual hearing as we can, and letting something like this get to this point, well... it's not good."

"So you mean I'm gonna be deafer?" Clint asked. 

"That's a possibility," the doctor agreed. "I'm going to write you a prescription for antibiotics. You need to make sure that you take the full course, even if you start feeling better before the pills are gone. Then you'll need to schedule an appointment with your audiologist to have them test your hearing and see if any further damage has been done."

"Right," Clint said. "Yeah. I'll do that."

"You need to," the doctor said, like he didn't believe that Clint wouldn't actually follow medical advice. Which wasn't exactly a _wrong_ assumption to make. "They may need to make adjustments to your hearing aids, that kind of thing, in order to maximize your hearing so that you can live as close to a normal life as possible."

_Because deaf people can't have a normal life?_

But could they? Maybe if they knew other deaf people they could, but in his world? The only person he could talk to without technological assistance was Natasha. If he couldn't hear, and she wasn't around, he would be completely lost, and how long would it be before his friends gave up on him? How long before they got tired of having to repeat themselves or write things down or whatever? How long before he found himself on the outside of every conversation?

And even if Natasha was around and could help clue him in, how long before she got sick of it? How long before he stopped being her boyfriend and started being a burden?

So he'd fucked up again. No surprise there, really. Hopefully whatever damage had been done was minimal, and once everything stopped hurting all the time, he could get back to what passed for normal. "You can head back out to the waiting room. The prescription will be sent to your pharmacy, and you can pick up your paperwork at the front desk."

"Thanks," Clint said, although he wasn't feeling thankful. He slid off the table and made his way back, knocking his shoulder against the doorframe on his way out as his balance went awry and sent him lurching sideways. Hopefully _that_ would end with the introduction of antibiotics, too, because he was starting to feel (and probably look) like he was drunk all the time, especially if he turned his head fast.

Mrs. Sullivan stood up as he walked out, and took the paperwork from the receptionist. She glanced at it, then folded it up and tucked it in her purse. "All set?" she asked him.

"Yeah." He followed her out into the hall, scuffing his feet along the carpet because picking them up seemed like too much effort.

"Do you _want_ to go back to school?" she asked as they waited for the elevator. "You can take the rest of the day off if you want to."

"My car's still at school," he pointed out.

"And I'm sure it will be fine there overnight," she said. "You can walk tomorrow, or I can drive you in, and you can drive it home."

Clint knew that he should probably go back to school, although he'd managed to catch up okay from the days he'd missed, with Natasha's help. But he just didn't have the energy to deal with it, and maybe once he'd started the antibiotics, maybe tomorrow he would be more up to it.

"Home or school?" she asked again as they got into the car, because he still hadn't answered. 

"Home," he said, because the only reason to go back to school was Natasha, and she would understand. He hoped. 

Mrs. Sullivan nodded, and she didn't even make him go with her to the pharmacy, even though it was on their way home. She dropped him off and went back out, bringing back the little orange bottle with the child-proof cap that only children could ever open. He took the first pill with the glass of water she gave him and retreated upstairs to sleep, hoping that when he woke up he would somehow, miraculously, have recovered.


	40. Chapter 40

_Where is everyone?_ , Clint asked, after Natasha kissed him in greeting. There was no one in the kitchen, no sound of the TV from the living room, and unless he was missing something (which was possible – his hearing still wasn't back to 100%, or whatever percent it was when it was at its normal fucked up but at least he can get through the day state, but the audiologist said there was a chance that the loss wasn't permanent) there wasn't really any other sounds in the house at all.

_Mr. Fury has some kind of meeting that will have him out late,_ Natasha replied. _Jessica is with Carol._

Clint's forehead furrowed slightly. That was unusual. Usually if Jess and Carol were together, it was here. He got the feeling that Carol didn't much like being at home. Of course, she had younger brothers, too, and he suspected she didn't get along so great with her father, so could he really blame her? Maybe they were actually out... _Are they on a **date**?_

Natasha laughed, a warm sound that made him want to pull her closer, and shook her head. _I don't think so. Just out. Although what makes it a date instead of just going somewhere with a friend?_

_This,_ Clint said, and slid his arms around her, kissing her again. Her arms encircled his shoulders and for a few minutes it was just them, alone in their own world, and everything else dropped away. It wasn't a feeling that they got often anymore; there was always someone else around. Now that they both had homes, both had families of sorts, privacy was almost unheard of.

She pushed him away gently when the need for oxygen finally overrode the desire to stay locked together. _I don't know when they're coming back,_ she told him. _We shouldn't... not here._

Not in the middle of the kitchen, no, but if they really were alone...

Natasha seemed to have the same idea, because she hooked her fingers in his belt loops and led him toward the stairs, their jackets and backpacks in a tangle on the floor of the front hallway because there was no one there to get annoyed with them for it. 

 

He stroked back her hair from her temple and smiled, propped up on one elbow as he watched her. She smiled back and took his hand, lacing their fingers together with index, pinkie and thumb extended before pressing her lips to the inside of his wrist. He shivered at the touch.

In moments like this, it was easy to imagine that the future they'd dreamed for each other, the future they'd dreamed together, could actually be real. In moments like this, when the rest of the world couldn't intrude and remind them life wasn't and never would be this easy, he could believe that this was something that they could have someday.

_Hungry?_ , Natasha signed, and he wondered if his stomach had growled loud enough for her to hear. 

_A little,_ he admitted, and as soon as he said it he realized that it was more than just a little.

_Me too,_ she said. _I'll make us dinner._

_I'll help,_ he replied. _I make a mean salad._

_Good._ She pushed back and covers and found her clothing where it had been discarded on the floor, tugging on her jeans and his t-shirt and grinning at him before reaching into a drawer to pull out another one (also his – he couldn't remember when he'd left it but assumed he must have at some point) and tossing it to him.

They made enough to feed the others if they came home unexpectedly, but ended up packing it away as leftovers before retreating back to her room. By the time they went to bed (to sleep this time) they were still alone in the house, and Clint could feel the tension settling into Natasha's shoulder and all along her spine, and she wouldn't settle.

_Did you lock the door when you came in?_ , she asked.

He had. He remembered specifically that he had, because unlocked doors made her uncomfortable. And she might take him at his word if he said yes, she might try to believe him, but she wasn't going to relax until she knew for sure. 

_I'm pretty sure I did,_ he said, _but let's check, just in case._

Natasha hesitated, then nodded, slipping out of bed and padding down the stairs, slowing the closer she got to the bottom step, because reaching the bottom of the stairs meant being nearly in front of the door. He stayed right behind her, a hand gently on her back so that she would know that he was still there, that he hadn't gone anywhere. She reached out and touched the doorknob, then the deadbolt, and they were both locked like Clint had known they would be. But he could feel the relief surge through her, and her ascent back up the stairs was much quicker than their descent had been. 

She locked her bedroom door as well, which was less usual because Mr. Fury always knocked, and Jessica remembered the majority of the time as well. She waited for Clint to slide in under the covers, then curled her body into the curve of his, her back to his chest, facing toward the door so that if someone, somehow, managed to come in, she would see them right away.

Clint nuzzled the back of her neck, kissing the spot behind her ear that made her shiver. "I'm here," he whispered. _We're safe._

He felt her nod, and maybe she believed it a little, because she at least _tried_ to relax. But sleep didn't come, so finally he started talking, rambling really, telling her a story that was half true and half entirely made up, and finally her breath evened out and she went still and soft in his arms sometime after midnight.

 

When he woke up, he couldn't make his eyes focus on the clock to tell him what time it was. He rubbed at them and finally it became clear. 2:37 am. Natasha's hand was gripping his arm, squeezing, and at first he thought it was a nightmare that had woken her but then he saw that she had her phone pressed to her ear. He reached for his hearing aids but they weren't on the nightstand and he assumed Natasha must have knocked them off when she grabbed her phone. 

Who the fuck was calling at 2:37 am?

_Get dressed,_ she signed to him, or at least that's what it looked like in the dim light. _We have to go._

_Go where?_ , he asked, but she didn't answer because she was talking again, not paying any attention to him. "Go where?" he repeated out loud, and she turned and glared at him, pressing her fingers to her lips as she scrambled for something other than flannel pants to wear.

_Go where?_ , he demanded when she finally hung up, grabbing her arm to force her to look at him and respond.

Her eyes widened and she looked down at his hand, and he pulled it away, looking at it too like it had betrayed him. He hadn't meant to squeeze that hard, but he didn't like being left in the dark (literally – she hadn't turned on the lights and now with the light of her phone screen gone, there was almost nothing to see by) and if he was going somewhere, shouldn't he know _where_?

_I'm sorry,_ he signed. _I just—_

She took his hands, stilling them. _Please. In the car. We **need** to go._ Her eyes almost glowed in the moonlight that worked its way around the edges of the shades. _Trust me. Please._

He didn't want to. He didn't want to trust her, but what choice did he have? She was obviously determined to do _something_ and—

His stomach dropped. What if that had been someone from the FBI on the phone? Or what if someone from her old life, one her 'uncle's' affiliates, had managed to track her down, find her? They were all supposed to be locked up, but there was no way the authorities could have _really_ gotten all of them, and...

Clint yanked on his clothes and followed Natasha, creeping down the stairs and slipping out the door and to his car, turning it on and putting it into reverse so that they were out of the driveway before there was a chance that if the sound of it could have woken Mr. Fury up, he could have gotten to the window, or to his car, in time to see which way they'd gone and followed them.

But surely if it _was_ the people that Natasha had helped put away... But no, she wouldn't tell him, would she? Not right off. Not with Jessica involved now, needing to be here as much as Natasha did, needing to be protected from her own past. If it had been the FBI or someone, _they_ would have contacted Mr. Fury first, but not if it was the bad guys calling to make threats or...

When they were far enough away that he could be pretty sure they hadn't been followed, he pulled over. _If I'm driving somewhere, I need to know where,_ he signed, realizing only then that he hadn't bothered to find his hearing aids before they'd left. 

_I have to map it on my phone,_ Natasha replied, _but... Massachusetts?_

_What's in Massachusetts?_

_Jessica,_ she told him. _And Carol. They went to a party there that Carol's old friends were throwing for her for her birthday, and Carol had too much to drink and she's not safe to drive, but Jessica doesn't want to stay there. She would drive herself but she doesn't know how. Mr. Fury is going to teach us or get us lessons this summer, but right now..._ She shrugged. _So she called me, knowing you would be there and have your car._

Clint felt relief flood through him, and the adrenaline drained from his system almost as quickly as it had been dumped in, leaving him feeling a bit limp. Drunk girls he could deal with. Russian hit-men were another story altogether. _I think I know which highway to get on to get us pointed in the right direction,_ he said, and put the car into gear again. _We'll figure it out from there._

He couldn't help thinking as he drove on nearly deserted highways (it _was_ the middle of the night, after all, even if it was a Friday) that Jessica hadn't entirely thought this through. Sure, he was willing to drive out to get her, them, but... it was two hours, and if she was somewhere where she could stay safely for two hours, why couldn't she just stay the night?

_She said she was somewhere safe, right?_ , he asked Natasha, the signs awkward as he tried to form them without taking both hands off the wheel at the same time. Watching her to see her response was even worse because he had to try to look at her and the road at the same time. 

Natasha leaned forward and turned toward him, doing her best to put herself in his line of sight. _Yes, but... she says Carol is really drunk and she's scared – well, she didn't **say** she's scared but she is – and she's surrounded by people she doesn't know._

She didn't really need to explain more than that. Clint didn't need to know her whole life history to understand why that would freak Jessica out. He didn't imagine that it would be any different for Natasha, or really any girl... and that was bullshit, when he thought about it. That he could go into a crowd of strangers and basically not have to worry about anything too horrible happening to him, even if he was drunk, and girls... they could never _stop_ worrying about what might happen to them in the same situation. What kind of a world was that to live in?

He tried to push the idea out of his head; he could think about it later. Now he needed to keep his focus on just getting where they needed to go and helping the ones he was able to help in the moment. 

_Here,_ Natasha signed, jabbing her finger urgently, but it was too late. He missed the turn, and quickly discovered that this neighborhood did not exist on any kind of grid as he tried to get them turned around and back on track.

They finally found the house, and the party seemed to have wound down, although there were still lights on and Clint thought he saw a few people moving around still. It was nearly 5 am by that point. 

A small figure was sitting on the front steps, but rose as they pulled into the driveway (barely managing to find a space amidst all of the other cars that were parked with absolutely no care toward people needing to get out). 

Natasha got out of the car first, going up to the person on the steps, which turned out (unsurprisingly) to be Jessica. Clint couldn't hear what she said to her, or what Jess said in reply, but after a minute they went inside, where they found Carol sprawled on a couch, loose-limbed and slacked –jawed, drooling on herself.

More conversation that Clint couldn't hear, and then Natasha turned to him. _Help me get her up and to the car,_ she told him. 

_What about her car?_ , he asked. _Are we just going to leave it here?_

_She's in no state to drive, and probably won't be 'til Sunday, looking at her._ Her nose wrinkled with distaste. _We can bring her back then, or one of her friends can bring it to her, or... I don't really care, honestly. She should have thought of that before she got completely wasted._

_Is there a reason we can't just leave her here?_ , Clint asked. _These are her friends, right? She would be safe here. We could just—_

_Jess won't leave without her,_ Natasha told him. _She thinks that if she does, something might happen to her, or that she might wake up and try to drive, or she might stay and keep drinking tomorrow and **then** try to drive, or... She has plenty of reasons and I'm not sure she's wrong._

_Okay,_ Clint agreed. It wasn't going to do anyone any good for him to argue, and Carol probably was better off at home... or more likely Mr. Fury's... sleeping it off. They could sort out the rest later. He looked over at Jess and started to sign, then realize that she wouldn't understand. "Can you find some kind of bag or bucket or something that we can take with us? I don't want her puking on the seats of my car."

Jessica nodded and went to find something. Clint didn't care if she stole a waste basket. He just didn't want to have to try to get the smell of vomit out of his upholstery. And from the looks of her, there was a very good chance that she would be sick before they got home.

He slid one arm around Carol, looping hers around his neck and propping her up. Natasha took her other side, which was a bit awkward with the height difference, but Natasha was strong enough to hold up her end of things so they managed to get her out the door and to the car. She wasn't asleep; they didn't have to drag her, but she wasn't really awake, either, and she only just barely managed to stumble along.

They got her into the back seat, and Jessica climbed in after her with Carol's head in her lap because they'd decided that propping her upright just so they could get a seatbelt around her probably wasn't in anyone's best interests. Clint got back behind the wheel and started the car. 

He was tempted to follow the signs that pointed them in the direction of the hospital, because really, he wasn't sure they weren't in over their heads, but probably that was overreacting and probably she would be fine, and he was used to dealing with drunk people, right? They could always find one along the way if it started to look like it was really necessary.

They had to stop twice along the way – once so they could dump the bag that Carol had (inevitably) been sick in, and once at a gas station truck stop kind of thing where they managed to get her to the bathroom before she was sick again. 

It was a long drive home... and when they got there, Mr. Fury was awake and waiting for them. He looked them up and down, finally fixing on Carol, and set his jaw, frowning. He said something that Clint thought might have ended in 'upstairs', and since that's the direction that both Natasha and Jessica turned in, he assumed he was right. 

In the end they decided it was easier to just settle her on the bathroom floor, rather than risking taking her to Jessica's room, where it would only be more difficult to manage if she started feeling sick again (and messy if they couldn't get her to the bathroom in time). Jess stayed with her, wrapped in a blanket that Natasha brought to her, eyes glassy and blank as she stared at the wall.

Natasha took Clint's hand and led him to her room, shutting the door (but not locking it this time), and pulled him into her arms, her fingers digging into his back. He held her just as tight, and wondered if the shaking he felt was him, or her, or both. _Don't,_ she signed, the space between their bodies almost too small to form it. _Don't ever do that._

_I won't,_ Clint promised. _That won't ever be me._

Because the last thing he ever wanted to be was his dad.


	41. Chapter 41

"The three of you. Living room. Now." 

Mr. Fury had let them sleep for a few hours, although Clint wasn't sure Jessica had actually slept. Dozed, maybe, uncomfortably wedged into a corner of the bathroom floor as she watched over Carol, who had remained largely oblivious to her surroundings.

They'd stumbled down to the kitchen for cereal, eating breakfast although it was nearly lunchtime. Carol was still asleep upstairs; they'd finally moved her to Jess's room when the worst of it seemed to have passed (and they couldn't ignore the need to be able to use the bathroom for other things any longer).

Jessica tucked herself into the corner of the couch, knees up and elbows in like if she just made herself small enough she could disappear. Clint took the other end, forcing himself to look calmer than he felt. Natasha sat between them, and Clint could see her trying to figure out exactly how she wanted to present herself in that moment. In the end she shifted just close enough that their knees brushed against each other as they sat, and he could rest his hand on the small of her back without anyone really being any the wiser.

Mr. Fury sat facing them, hands folded, deceptively casual, but there was a bite in his voice as he asked, "So who wants to explain to me exactly why it is that you all came in at an hour that you would never willingly be awake at?"

Clint stared straight ahead, not letting his eyes dart to Natasha or Jessica, not wanting to give anything away... if, in fact, they were attempting not to give things away. Were they going to try to lie their way out of this one? He wasn't entirely sure how they could, considering Mr. Fury had seen them come in, had seen the state that Carol was in, knew – had to know – that it had been Clint who had done the driving...

"I called Natasha to come get us," Jessica said finally. "That's all."

"At six o'clock in the morning?" Mr. Fury asked. 

"N— yeah." Clint saw Jessica twitch at the slip. 

"Why?"

"Because I wasn't... comfortable... being there anymore," Jessica said. "I wanted to come home." 

"You weren't comfortable being _where_ , Jessica?" Mr. Fury asked. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I was under the impression that you were spending the night at Carol's house. What would make you uncomfortable there?"

"We... ended up leaving," Jess replied. "One of her friends from her old school was throwing her an early birthday party, and she couldn't really say no and I was already there, so... I went." She shrugged like it was no big deal. 

_Nice try,_ Clint thought, but he knew it wouldn't be good enough, that Mr. Fury would see right through it. He suspected Jess knew it too.

"From her old school?" Mr. Fury asked. "That's interesting. Because if I remember correctly, Carol's previous school was in Massachusetts. Am I misremembering?"

"No," Jess said. "You're not."

"So then let me get this straight. You told me you were going to Carol's. You then got invited to a party, which you decided to go to with her, in _another state_ , and you didn't think at any point that you might want to give me a head's up, let me know that plans had changed?" 

"I didn't think it would be a big deal," Jess said. "It was just a party, and it wasn't _that_ far away."

"How long did it take you to get there?" Mr. Fury asked. Jessica shrugged. "Half an hour? An hour? Two hours?"

"I don't remember," she said.

Mr. Fury frowned. "Well, that's all right," he said, "because I do. Or at least I can make an educated guess. I would estimate that the party was at least two hours away, assuming that you two—" he turned his head to look at Clint and Natasha, a one-eyed glare that wasn't nearly as intimidating as it used to be... but was still pretty intimidating, "—didn't linger at the party too long, because it was over four hours between the time you left and the time you got back. Or did you think I wouldn't notice?"

Clint wasn't sure if the question was supposed to be rhetorical or not. Natasha had settled on glaring back at Mr. Fury as her tactic of choice for getting through this conversation – lecture – whatever it was – and wasn't saying a word. But neither was Jessica or Mr. Fury, and finally the silence stretched to the point where he was forced to come to the conclusion that the principal-slash-foster father really was waiting for an answer. "We hoped you wouldn't," he said. 

"Well, you hoped wrong," Mr. Fury said. "So now I've got to ask both of you something, because you're both reasonably intelligent individuals, and often the whole is greater than the sum of its parts, so the pair of you together should be smarter than you would be separately. Why, when you got a call in the middle of the night asking you to come help out a friend, did it not occur to you to let an adult know what was going on?"

Again, Clint really couldn't tell if he was really looking for an answer or not. And if he was, why? Wasn't it obvious? Did he not know them at all? He'd thought, back when Mr. Fury had first taken Natasha in, that he got it. At least some of it, sometimes. Got them, got where they were coming from, got why it was hard for them to just settle into anything resembling a normal home life. 

Maybe he'd been wrong.

"If she want to call you, she would call you," Natasha said, having apparently decided that her silence would not protect her. "She call us, so we go." She crossed her arms. "I don't see where is problem."

"The problem is that one of you was, by her own admission, in a potentially dangerous situation, and the other two of you went to go rescue her from said situation, very likely not knowing exactly what kind of situation you were walking into, without telling anyone where you were going. The problem is that one of you went somewhere with little to no knowledge of what they were getting themselves into without letting anyone know where you were going in the first place. The problem is that you think that you can just leave me in the dark, do whatever you want, and expect that you'll get away with it, that there won't be any consequences, that—"

"Nothing happened, though!" Jessica interrupted. "Okay, maybe I overreacted. I just got a little freaked out and I wanted to come home and hey, guess what, Clint's with Natasha and he's got a car, and they're my friends so they'll help me out. So what? What was I supposed to do?"

"You were _supposed_ to call _me_ ," Mr. Fury said. "You were _supposed_ to let me know that you weren't going to be where you said you were going to be – namely, at Carol's house – and make sure that it was okay for you to go along with this change of plans. Then, if there was a problem, you were supposed to let me know so that I could come get you. Because that's _my_ responsibility. That's what I signed on for when I took you – both of you – in, and I take that very seriously. You're both here – here, specifically – for a reason. But it seems like you've both forgotten that somewhere along the line. And I should be glad that you feel safe enough to forget it, but at the same time..." He held up his hands, a helpless gesture. 

"If I asked, you would have said no," Jessica said. "If I called you, you would have yelled. I was trying to—"

"I wouldn't have yelled," Mr. Fury said. "I would have asked you where you were, and I would have come and picked you up. You and Carol both. No questions asked. Your safety is the most important thing. Yes, we might have had to go over some ground rules the next day, and that's my own fault for not being clearer about certain things when you first arrived here, but I wouldn't have yelled."

"Then why you are yelling now?" Natasha asked. "Why you are angry now? If you would not be angry before, why now when nothing bad happen?"

Mr. Fury looked at her. "Because that's not the point. And if I remember correctly, we've had this conversation before, about why you don't just up and leave and go wherever you feel like without letting anyone know."

"That was before," Natasha said, narrowing her eyes. "That is not now."

"Nothing has changed, Natasha," Mr. Fury said. "The rules are still—"

" _Everything_ has changed," Natasha snapped. "That is before trial. That is when maybe they are still looking for me to shut me up. That is before the court says they are guilty, locks them up where they can't get to me. Now they are prisoner, not me."

"There's still—"

"They are still out there?" Natasha demanded. "That is what you think? They are still out there, looking for me, and if I go somewhere in middle of night, if I cross imaginary line that says that I am in one state instead of other state, this makes difference? This is what you think? Because I think you know nothing, then, because I am here. Every day, I am here. Every day, I am at school. If they are looking, they will find me where I always am."

"I'm not saying that they're out there looking for you," Mr. Fury said, "but we can't ignore the fact that, even from the inside, they might have connections, and there is a _possibility_ that someone might look for you. And yes, if they're looking, they're more likely to find you in the places where you always are, but they're more likely to _take_ you from somewhere where you usually aren't. And if no one knows you were there, how will we know where to start looking to find you?"

Natasha's jaw tightened, and Clint pressed his hand harder against her back, wanting her to feel him there, that he was still with her. He didn't know what to say. He didn't want them to be fighting. He didn't want any of this to be happening at all, and he could see everyone's point and he hadn't really thought about any of it and he really wished that they could all go back in time and just do it all over again.

"So what?" Natasha asked. "I am back to being prisoner? I can't do that. That is not life. Not for me. Not for anyone. I _won't_ do it. You want I should tell you where I go? Fine. I will try. But I did right thing. _We_ did right thing. I get call from her, my almost-sister, in middle of night, she needs me, I go. I do not think except about best way to get to her, fastest way. That is all. You will not make me feel bad for this."

Mr. Fury sighed, rubbing his forehead. "All right," he said, looking and sounding tired, almost defeated. "All right. This... We all made some mistakes here, and we're going to sit down and sort it out, but not right now. Not like this. This isn't doing any of us any good."

"So... you're not going to punish us?" Jessica asked, and the tone of her voice made Clint wonder what punishment meant where she came from. She wasn't the kind of person who balked at much, but there was something in the way she held herself, a catch in her breathing that made him think that in Cultsville, USA they might not be sparing the rod and spoiling the child. But she had to know that wasn't going to happen here, right?

"I didn't say that," Mr. Fury said. "You're both grounded until spring break. You go to school, if you have any after school activities you've already committed to you can attend them, and you come home. That's it." He looked at Natasha, then at Clint. "When you are here, you will give your car keys to me. I will give them back when it's time for you to go home." He looked back at Jessica. "Same goes for Carol. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," Jessica said. 

Clint didn't say anything at first, because he hadn't quite processed what he'd heard. Natasha was grounded but... he was still allowed to come over? It didn't make sense. If he _really_ wanted to punish them, wouldn't he try to keep them apart?

"Yes," Natasha said. "I understand." Her back was stiff now, but he had felt her sag back into his touch for a second when Fury had made it clear that her punishment didn't include Clint being banned from coming over.

Mr. Fury looked at Clint expectantly.

"Uh, yes. Sir," Clint said finally.

"Good. That's starting now, so I'm going to need you to go get your keys."

Clint got up, and both Natasha and Jessica got up to follow him. Mr. Fury didn't stop them. He found his keys where he'd dropped them when they came in and picked them up, taking them back downstairs. "Uh... sir?" he asked, figuring respectful was probably the way to go right about now. "Can I, uh, ask a question?"

"You just did," Mr. Fury said, "but go ahead."

"Are you, uh... are you going to tell the Sullivans?"

"Do you _want_ me to tell the Sullivans?" Mr. Fury asked. 

"No," Clint said. "I'd really rather you didn't."

"Then no, I won't tell them. But if anything like this happens again..."

He didn't need to finish the threat. "It won't," Clint said, even though he knew he might be lying. If the same situation came up, he would do the same thing. He knew it. They all knew it, and no one was kidding anyone. But maybe – hopefully – it wouldn't come up again. But that kind of depended on... well, at the moment, on Carol, who was the one who'd made this whole mess in the first place and the one who hadn't had to sit through that... whatever it was.

"I'm glad to hear that. Anything else?"

Clint started to shake his head, then stopped. "Yes," he said. "Why... why are you letting me stay?"

Mr. Fury sighed. "Because I've seen what happens when she's upset and you're not around," he said. "And this – however bad an idea it was, however much I need you all to understand that you _can't_ do those kinds of things – isn't worth doing that to either one of you."

"Oh." Clint nodded. "I'm gonna..." He gestured towards the stairs.

"Go ahead," Mr. Fury said. "I'm going to go have some more coffee."

Clint couldn't help thinking that the coffee might be fortified with something just a little bit stronger.

He went back upstairs, and Natasha was sitting on the edge of her bed, watching the door warily like she wasn't sure what was going to come through. _He's not making you leave,_ she signed, not exactly a question but there was uncertainty in it.

Clint shook his head. _He says that..._ He stopped. _It would hurt us, both of us, more than it's worth._ It was what Mr. Fury had implied, if not his exact words. _He remembers during the trial, I think, and—_

_So do I,_ Natasha said, and motioned him closer.

Clint knelt in front of her, his hands in her lap, and she leaned down, resting her forehead against his and closing her eyes. He watched her face, only able to pick out one detail at a time from this close range: the way her eyebrows knit together, the corners of her mouth as they drew down, the lines of tension that etched themselves at the corners of her eyes. He reached up to smooth them away, and she caught his hand, held his palm to her cheek, her lips brushing against the inside of his wrist as she whispered something he couldn't hear, or maybe it was just her breath after all.

The moment was broken by the door opening, followed quickly by a mumbled, "Sorry," and the door closing again.

Natasha looked up, Clint's hand still in her grip. "No," she said. "What is it?"

A second passed, then another, and then Jessica's face appeared again. "Nothing. It's not important. I didn't mean to... interrupt."

"You did not interrupt," Natasha said. "Is something wrong? How is Carol?"

"Snoring," Jessica said. "And drooling." She wrinkled her nose. "I'm tempted to make a video of it to use as blackmail later."

Natasha laughed, barely more than an exhalation. "Maybe it would not be bad idea," she said. "At least she is not being sick."

"Yeah," Jessica agreed. "And at least she didn't get us into too much trouble."

"At least that," Natasha said. 

So at least they were all on the same page there. This – all of this – was basically Carol's fault, and she was the one who was sleeping through all of it. Clint wondered if she would even remember any of it when she finally woke up, if she would wonder how she'd gotten from her friend's house to here, if she would assume that it had all gone smoothly, like it had all been part of some plan in the first place. And he wondered if they would ever tell her.

Jessica would have to explain why she was grounded, wouldn't she? And why Carol had to hand over her keys when she walked in the house? That would clue her in, wouldn't it? But even if she know, would she _understand_ , really? Would any of them try to make her understand?

He didn't have to ask the girls the question to know that the answer for all of them was the same: probably not.

"Did you need something?" Natasha asked. 

"No," Jessica said. "I just... had a question."

"So ask."

"Did you mean what you said down there?"

Natasha cocked her head. "I don't say things I don't mean," she replied. "Which part you are wondering about?"

"About... you called me..." Jessica squirmed, her cheeks flushing slightly, and Clint could tell that she was regretting ever bringing it up. 

"Almost-sister?" Natasha asked. "What else I am going to call you? What else you are to me?"

"Nothing," Jessica said. "I don't know. I just..." She shrugged.

"I don't say things I don't mean," Natasha repeated. 

"Okay," Jessica said. She shut the door behind her when she left.

"I don't know if she is happy or sad that is the answer," Natasha said.

"I don't know either," Clint admitted. 

Silence, and then, "I am too tired to care." And she pulled him up beside her and pressed him down into the sheets, and his shoulder was her pillow and her body was his blanket and although they didn't sleep again they didn't move for a long, long time.


	42. Chapter 42

Clint was relieved when Mrs. Sullivan told him that their plans to go away for April vacation hadn't worked out. They'd been planning something big, although they'd been sparing with the details, and he'd dreaded the possibility of being dragged anywhere with his foster brothers for a week. 

Especially when it would have meant missing Natasha's birthday.

Not that he had any great plans for it; he knew he should do something special but he had no idea what that ought to be. He wasn't even sure Natasha would want to have a big deal made about it. Last year her birthday had gone by with little fanfare... except that her entire world had shifted that day, and his along with it.

Did she remember? Stupid question. How could she forget?

He'd gotten permission from the Sullivans to spend Tuesday night at Mr. Fury's, so that he was with her when she woke up. She yawned and stretched as sunlight crept across the floor, threatening them in their cocoon of blankets. She drew them up tighter around them, even though the morning was relatively warm, pressing herself closer to him.

_Happy birthday,_ he signed. _You're almost as old as me now._

His grin was teasing, and she just rolled her eyes in response. _I am exactly the same number of days younger than you today as I was yesterday,_ she pointed out. _That doesn't change just because this happens to be the day that is written down on a piece of paper, stating that I was born._ She tapped his nose with the tip of one finger. _The records might not even be right._

_Spoilsport,_ he spelled out, because he wasn't sure what the sign of it was, or if one existed. He would have to try to remember to look it up later. _I say it's your birthday, so it is. Even if it wasn't, after last year..._

Natasha went still, looking at him but not exactly seeing him for a minute. After a moment she nodded. _Yes. This is my birthday._

_So happy birthday,_ he said. 

_Not yet,_ she replied, and kissed him until they were both breathless, until the warmth and light of the morning suffused their bodies, until they lay tangled together as they remembered how to breathe again. _Now it is._

When they went downstairs, they discovered that Jessica had made birthday pancakes (they had sprinkles in them, but were otherwise perfectly ordinary and edible) for her, more than the three of them could eat, although they made a good effort. Mr. Fury came into the kitchen a little while later, having already been out that morning, and polished off what was left.

"I didn't know what to get you," he told Natasha, "so I thought we would do something that we probably should have done last year."

She cocked her head, frowning slightly. "I was not here last year," she pointed out.

"I know. But we've had a whole year, and I never took you, and it's a rite of passage for the American teenager."

"What is?"

"Getting your learner's permit," he said. "Seems as good a day as any to go get it, doesn't it?"

Natasha looked at him, startled, then glanced at Clint. _Why not?_ , he asked. _Then you can drive me around instead of me always driving you._

"They will let me?" Natasha asked. "Even though I am not... from here?"

"You've got a long-term visa," Mr. Fury said. "You're allowed to get a permit, and a license, yes."

"Oh. Then yes."

"What about me?" Jessica asked. "Do I have to wait 'til my birthday?"

"Technically, no," Mr. Fury said. "You're already sixteen, so you can take the test to get your permit now, but—"

"Then she takes test," Natasha said. "Why not?"

The principal actually looked alarmed. "I'm not sure that I'm ready to have _both_ of you learning to drive right now," he said.

"So? I say that she takes test today, and it is my birthday so you can't say no," Natasha said, grinning.

Clint laughed. "She figured that one out pretty quick."

"I noticed," Mr. Fury said dryly. "All right. If you want to take the test today, Jessica, you can." He shook his head. "God help us all," he muttered in an undertone just loud enough for Clint to pick up.

Of course that meant that they spent most of the morning at the DMV, waiting, and filling out some forms, and then waiting some more, but when they left both girls had permits that said they were allowed to learn to drive... and a long list of rules about the who and the how and the when they were allowed to do it.

"Don't make me regret this," Natasha said, leaning forward from the back seat as Jessica got in behind the steering wheel in an empty parking lot. 

"I'm sure that I'm an excellent driver," Jessica said, lifting her chin slightly, then laughing. "We're only going like two miles an hour anyway."

Two miles an hour, Clint discovered, could feel pretty damn fast when you weren't in control of the vehicle, and you weren't 100% sure the person driving it was either.

"Where did you learn to drive?" Jess asked Clint as Natasha took her turn.

"In big empty fields, mostly," Clint said. "I drove the circus trucks around to move them from one place to another." He shrugged. 

"We weren't allowed to drive," Jess said. "Girls, I mean. Women. Some knew how, but they weren't supposed to. It was a man's job."

"But... what if you need to go somewhere and there is not any man around?" Natasha asked, turning to look at her until Mr. Fury (rather more sharply than seemed necessary to Clint) reminded her to keep her eyes on the road.

"Where would you need to go?" Jessica asked. "We had everything we needed right there. Allegedly." She wrinkled her nose. 

"What if there is emergency, though? What if someone is sick or hurt and you need to go to the hospital? Did you call ambulance?"

"They weren't big on, uh, the medical establishment," Jess said. "It was..." She shrugged, rolled her eyes. "Anyway, there basically wasn't any time where there wasn't a man around. We were watched pretty much all the time. It was..." She shrugged again.

"It's over now," Clint said. "Now you'll be able to go wherever you need to, without anyone watching." He looked at Mr. Fury, whose single eye was alternating between the pavement and Natasha. He wondered if his neck got sore. "Well, eventually."

All told, they spent almost an hour driving around and around the parking lot, until Clint was starting to get dizzy and the girls were fairly comfortable with the basics of keeping the car going in a straight line, and turning when necessary... in both directions, even. 

Mr. Fury took them all to lunch after, which included an ice cream sundae with candles stuck into it for Natasha. Her cheeks flushed pink as it was set in front of her, but luckily the wait staff was warned off before they could make more of a fuss. Her fingers found Clint's and gripped them tightly as she blew out the candles, and he didn't ask what she wished for. He wasn't even sure she knew she was supposed to make one.

After that, they were free to do what they wanted. Jessica called Carol to tell her about driving, and Natasha tugged Clint toward his car. 

"Remember she's not allowed to drive with only you there to supervise," Mr. Fury said.

Clint remembered. Whether they would actually pay any attention to that fact was another matter, but probably better not to risk trouble on the very first day, and he wasn't sure she was ready for the roads yet, anyway, although she was pretty fearless about it all... or good at hiding it, anyway.

"Where to?" he asked. 

"I want to go back to old place," she said. 

"You're not—"

"Supposed to, in case there still are people watching. I know. Please."

He'd never really learned to say no to her, and really, what was the harm in it? What were the odds that anyone would be watching at that particular moment? And they could stay in the car. She wouldn't actually be able to go _inside_ , right? 

He wondered then if the shop that her uncle had run (as a front, he assumed now) was still open. If it was, there was a good chance whoever was in charge of it now would be somehow associated with Natasha's uncle (not uncle, he corrected himself mentally, but at his point the distinction seemed somewhat moot) and going in there would be a bad idea. He just hoped that Natasha would realize that, and he wouldn't have to try and stop her from doing anything stupid.

"Are you sure?" he asked when they were still blocks away. "We could go anywhere. Are you sure this is where you want to go?"

"Yes," Natasha said. "I have to."

Clint sighed. He parked the car a little ways away, just in case anyone _was_ paying attention. He didn't want them making note of his plates and looking him up somehow. He looked over at Natasha, and her face was set in a mask, jaw clenched, eyes narrowed. _You don't have to—_ , he started.

_I do,_ she replied, cutting him off. _I do have to do this. Just come with me._

So he got out of the car, and when she started walking, he followed, falling into step beside her. She had her hood up, and she walked at a pace that was neither fast nor slow, obviously not wanting to call attention to herself. When they got to the café across the street from the building where she had lived, she stopped.

Clint stopped beside her, looking at it, trying to see what she saw and knowing that he couldn't. He'd never seen the inside of the building, the apartment where she'd lived, her bedroom. He'd never seen any of it, and he wasn't sure he would have been able to stomach it, knowing (in no great detail, but knowing enough) what had happened there. 

He felt her hand slide into his, and he squeezed her fingers. The shop was closed, with the air of a place that had been shut up for a long time. There was a For Sale or Lease sign in one of the windows, and even that looked like it was covered in dust. 

_I want to burn it to the ground,_ Natasha said, her eyes still fixed on the place that had been her own personal hell for way too long. _I want to watch it crumble to ashes._

_Me too,_ Clint said. _But I'm not sure they would let me visit you in prison if you got caught._ He tried to make a joke of it, but there was something hard in her gaze, unyielding, that made him a little nervous. She would do it, given the chance. He wouldn't blame her, either. He could only hope that she had the sense not to actually try. 

_So I don't get caught,_ Natasha told him. 

_'Tasha..._ He reached out with his free hand, touched her cheek, traced her jaw and cheekbone with his thumb until she finally dragged her gaze away from the building and focused on him. _It's not worth the risk. He's not._

She started to shake her head, then stopped. _Come on,_ she said, and tugged his hand. For a second he thought – worried – that she was actually going to go up to the building, try to climb the fire escape to get in or something equally insane, but no, she dragged past it, through alleys into other streets, and after a few minutes he found himself back on familiar (and hallowed) ground.

_Do you think it's still how we left it?_ , he asked as they ducked through the broken place in the fence. They hadn't been there in a long time, and if he was being honest, he kind of missed it. It was good that she was in a safe place, and that he was feeling more at home at the Sullivans, but with that there had come the loss of all kinds of stolen moments, the intimacy of being the only two people in the world, or at least feeling like it.

She didn't answer, just led him between the crumbling headstones, over grass only just beginning to turn green again. Spring was finally coming; the endless winter was finally ending. (He'd only just put the snow shovels back in the garage earlier that week.) They made their way to the little shed that had been their shelter, their sanctuary against everything that was wrong in their worlds, and stepped inside.

From the looks of it, no one else had found it, or if they had they hadn't done much of anything to make it their own. The ashes in the little stone ring they'd used for fires were old – maybe over a year old, now, from not this past January but the one before – and the tarps that covered the ground were still there, but covered in a layer of fallen leaves and dirt. 

_Looks like no one else has found this place except maybe some mice,_ Natasha said. 

_Looks like,_ Clint agreed. He turned to look at Natasha, tried to smile and didn't quite make it.

_I miss this,_ she said, as if she could read his thoughts. _I know that it's better, but..._

_It doesn't always feel better,_ he finished, not knowing if that was really what she was planning on saying, but it was true for him. _It feels like we lost something._

_Sometimes I feel like I'm in more of a cage now than I was then, because I'm actually **trying** to do things the way they want me to,_ Natasha said. _They make the rules, and I follow them. I didn't used to care, because what were they going to do to me if I didn't play their game? There wasn't anything worse that I could think of than what was already happening... except if they actually took me away from you._

That was it, Clint realized. That was it exactly. In exchange for safety, they'd given up independence, and it was for each other. And their own good, too, probably, because where were they going to go, and what were they going to do when they got there? 

_Yeah,_ he agreed. _And even though I see you all the time, it's... not the same._ Because there was always other people around. Yes, Mr. Fury and the Sullivans had come to some kind of agreement/arrangement that allowed them to be together more than the average teenager would ever be allowed, but still, it was subject to their whims, because now Natasha lived too far away to just climb out her window and into his. 

_Do you ever think about just leaving?_ , Natasha asked him. _Just packing up your stuff and going somewhere else?_

_Not without you,_ he told her, _but yes._

_We should,_ she said. _Not forever, but... for a while. A few days, maybe. Just get away from everyone, everything, just..._

_Trouble is, they would send out some kind of manhunt for us. For you,_ he amended, because he wasn't actually sure the Sullivans would bother. Of course, if he did what she suggested, he wasn't sure they would welcome him back when he did return from wherever they decided to go. Which shouldn't bother him, but it did, and it bothered him more that it bothered him. He didn't like being dependent on anyone. He didn't like looking to anyone else for a feeling of security. 

_Probably,_ Natasha agreed. _They might think I was kidnapped or something._

_We could always leave a note,_ Clint suggested. 

_They'd think we were coerced into writing it or something._ Natasha sighed. _This isn't how I imagined my life would be._

_How did you imagine it?_

Either she didn't have an answer, or she didn't care to give it, because she just shrugged. Wherever her mind was, it was far away.

But Clint had an idea. _Will you be okay here by yourself for a little bit?_ , he asked. _Not too long. Maybe an hour._

She looked at him, frowning. _Yes. Why?_

_I just need to do something quickly,_ he said. _Don't worry. It's something good._

Natasha quirked an eyebrow. _Okay,_ she agreed, but there was doubt writ bold on her face. 

He leaned in and kissed her. _I'll be right back._

When he returned, it was with everything they needed for a picnic. Because they'd done that once, very early on in knowing each other, and that was what he wanted to think about now, that was what he wanted to remember, those bright moments with her when everything was new and they still didn't know each other or trust each other completely, but they wanted so badly to even though they both fought it. 

_Happy birthday,_ he told her as they sprawled on the blanket when the food was gone and the leftovers packed away. 

"Thank you," she whispered, her lips brushing his ear, and this time there were no tears, and this time he didn't stop her. And for a little while it was like it had been, when it was the two of them and when they were together they were each other's entire worlds, and reality be damned.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was written ahead, so I had no idea at the time that on Natasha's birthday (April 16) we would actually wake up to SNOW and freezing cold. So lucky them, they got a nice day instead of the insanity of New England weather!
> 
> And sorry that this posted late! Apparently I somehow saved it as a draft instead of posting! :'(


	43. Chapter 43

"Thanks for coming," Steve said, letting them into the house. "Bruce and Tony are already here, and Peggy. You remember Peggy?" He didn't wait for them to respond. "Everyone's in the living room. We're trying to figure out how exactly to tackle this." He looked around, a line forming between his eyebrows as he frowned. "It's... well, it's a lot of stuff."

Clint still wasn't sure why they'd agreed to come help Steve with the spring cleaning. He'd been helping Mr. Sullivan at his own house since the weather got warm, on and off, but that had mostly just been doing stuff outside – picking up branches that had fallen during the winter, making sure the gutters were cleaned out, that kind of thing. It hadn't been inside, although his foster father had hinted that there might be some decent money in it for him if he wanted to help him tackle the garage.

Steve's house, on the other hand... well, there was work to be done outside, but most of it, from what he'd said, was inside. Sorting, cleaning... and packing. There was a For Sale sign in the front yard, and he'd said that there were a few people who had already expressed interest in the place, so they needed get things ready sooner rather than later.

"Is anyone else coming?" Clint asked. 

Steve shook his head. "I don't think so. I invited Loki but I'm pretty sure he's busy, or at least pretending to be. Thor's still at school for the next couple of weeks, and he couldn't get away for the weekend. So it's just us."

"Eight people is enough," Natasha reassured him. "I think is almost more people than rooms."

"You might be right," Steve said, favoring her with a smile that didn't quite reach his eyes. "And it doesn't all have to get done today, or even this weekend. Just... as much as we can, so we can figure out if there's anything major that needs to be done that might be an issue for a buyer." 

Peggy got up from where she'd been sitting, talking to Bruce like they were old friends. She put her hand on Steve's shoulder and squeezed. "It'll be all right," she told him softly. 

"Why are you selling the place, anyway?" Tony asked. "Isn't it already paid for?"

Steve shook his head. "No. There's still a mortgage on it, and a second mortgage that Mom had to take out to help pay for things after Dad died, and when she got sick." Clint saw his adam's apple bob as he swallowed. "Nothing that can't be paid off when the place is sold. The realtor is confident that we can get full market value for it as long as we don't find anything crazy wrong with it, and, uh, the loans are less than that, so..." He shrugged, and wrapped his arm around Peggy's shoulders as she slipped her arm around his waist and pulled him close for a one-armed hug. "I just... I've been getting by, barely, but..." He shrugged. "Anyway, it's time."

It had been a year, almost, since his mother had died. Clint couldn't imagine what it was like to live in the house where you'd grown up, where you'd once had two parents, then one, then none, but all of those memories still had to be there, lurking around every corner. When he looked at the kitchen table, what did he think of? When he saw the pictures on the wall, did he remember those moments? 

He'd never had to worry about that himself; they were never in one place long enough to build up much in the way of memories. Sure, there was the trailer that they lived in, and that place had been crammed with things he'd rather not remember, but most of his childhood was dusty open fields and pop-up towns of trucks and tents, here today, gone tomorrow only to be set up again a hundred miles later, and the more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

"I talked to my dad," Carol said, "and if there is anything that needs to be done, he said that he's willing to give you a family discount." She leaned in closer like she was going to whisper, but didn't actually try to lower her voice much. "Which basically means he'll get the job done for the cost of materials, beer and pizza." She grinned.

"I appreciate that," Steve said. "Hopefully there won't be any surprises, but seriously, that's really nice of you."

"What are friends for?" Carol asked. Not that she and Steve were particularly friends, that Clint knew of, but they'd all worked on the musical together and that gave them all a kind of camaraderie, regardless of how well they knew each other on a personal level.

"So how are we going to do this?" Tony asked. "We don't... how do we know what you might want to keep?"

"You don't," Steve admitted. "Which makes it hard, because I can't really be everywhere all at once."

"So how do you want to do it?" Tony asked. 

"Well, anyone who's willing to work outside – it's a nice day, thankfully – can start working on the yard. I have to admit, I wasn't great about taking care of it last year and it's kind of a mess now. Inside I guess we'll just have to take it room by room."

"I'll go outside," Clint volunteered immediately. 

"I'll go too," Bruce said. 

Tony shot him a quick glare, but then said he would join them. Clint tried not to roll his eyes, even though he was pretty sure that Tony was going to be more of a hindrance than a help. He doubted that he'd ever done much in the way of physical labor in his life, unless it was lifting and carrying stuff that he needed for his own projects. 

That left Steve and the girls inside, which Carol didn't look too sure about, but it looked like Jessica had a grip on her arm, possibly with nails dug in to keep her from trying to dodge out to join the boys. "I'll show you were everything is," Steve said, and led them to the garage where they found rakes, hedge clippers, and a lawnmower that looked like it had seen better days. "It doesn't work very well," Steve admitted. "I'm not sure what's wrong with it."

At that Tony's eyes lit up. "I'll figure it out," he said, dragging it out into the driveway and turning it on its side to peer at its inner workings. 

"I guess we're on our own," Bruce said, grabbing a rake. "At least for a little while."

"If he can get that thing working, it'll be worth it," Clint said. "But we should probably start with raking, getting up any fallen leaves that he didn't get to, that kind of thing."

Which ended up taking a lot longer than Clint expected. When Steve said he hadn't really taken care of the yard, he hadn't been kidding. The grass was long, and even though it was mostly dry and brittle, only just starting to recover from the seemingly endless winter, it snapped the tines of the rake, making it twice as hard as it needed to be. It didn't seem like Steve had raked at all during the fall, but then Clint had to wonder, with his asthma and allergies and everything else, if he really could. 

In the end, they had the leaves (half-rotted and turning into mulch) raked and bagged and brought to the curb, and were in the process of clearing up the last of the small fallen branches when Tony finished with the lawnmower. "I don't know if Steve's dad was actually handy or if he just collected spare parts, but I actually found everything I needed right in the garage," Tony said. A smear of grease streaked the front of his shirt. "It probably runs better now than it ever did." He grinned.

"As long as it's sentient," Bruce said. 

"Well, I _did_ make a few enhancements..." Tony said, waggling his eyebrows. 

"You're running the thing, then," Bruce said. "I'm not risking it deciding it hates me and having to run for my life as it chases me around the lawn."

Tony laughed. "What can I say? I did it for the Vine." 

Natasha came outside then, bringing with her a tray of sandwiches and bottles of water and soda. She set them on a small table on the porch, and they sprawled out in the sun to eat. "How are things inside?" Clint asked. 

She shrugged. "Is hard," she said. "We don't know what is important, what is not so we have to ask Steve, and then he has to decide what of his life to keep, what to give away. He says that his mother always was donating things."

The door opened, and the rest of the group came out to join them. "She hated throwing things away," Steve said. "Sometimes my dad would tease her, asking if she was secretly a lot older than she looked, because she acted like she'd grown up during the Depression, the way she saved everything that might be useful later, or made sure that it found a new home with someone else who could use it."

"It's not a bad way to be," Peggy said. "At least she actually _did_ find other homes for things, instead of keeping everything. I'm not sure I could handle it if we had to sort through a house like one of those ones on Hoarders." She smiled at him, bumping her shoulder against his, so he'd know it was a joke.

"Where are you going to go?" Bruce asked. "Once the house is sold, I mean."

"We're looking for a place," Steve said, gesturing between himself and Peggy. "Not like _that_!" he added, looking slightly alarmed as their jaws dropped. "Us and a few friends. We're hoping to find a house to rent, rather than an apartment."

"Why not just have people come live with you here?" Tony asked around a mouthful of sandwich. "Wouldn't it be easier?"

Steve shook his head. "I thought about it, but there's really not that much space here to have more than one person stay, and it would feel weird, having someone else living in my Mom's room, you know? It just... it didn't feel right, when I thought about it. I know she wouldn't mind, but... I know she wouldn't mind me selling the place, either, and it would have to happen sooner or later. I'm going to switch schools after this next year, after I've covered my gen eds and basic requirements at the community college, and that might not keep me in the area, and then what? I wouldn't want other people living in the house when I'm not there, so... it's been almost a year. It's time."

Carol looked around, her forehead furrowing. "Sorry if this is really insensitive, but... am I the only one who still has both of my parents?" A quick glance at Jessica and she amended, "And still lives with them?"

Peggy looked a little startled. "Both of my parents are still alive," she said, "but they're not still together, and I don't live with them. I get along with both of them, though. You all...?" The look on her face said she wasn't quite sure how to finish the question, or even if she should be asking it.

"My mother's dead," Bruce said. "My father's in jail. I live with my grandparents." They all knew he mostly lived at Tony's, but no one was going to correct them.

"My mom died when I was younger," Tony said. 

"Both of my parents died in an accident," Clint volunteered, because apparently this was a thing that they were doing for whatever reason. 

"I almost do not remember my parents. They died when I was very young," Natasha added.

"My parents are still together," Jessica said after a moment's hesitation, "but I couldn't stay with them. It was... not a good environment."

"Wow," Peggy said. "I guess... well, I guess the group that Steve told me about where you all met each other makes a little more sense now."

"It wasn't about that," Steve said, "but yeah. Troubled Teens Not So Anonymous, or something like that."

"Mr. Coulson's Not-A-Support Group for Misfit Toys," Tony said. 

"What have you guys been up to lately, anyway?" Steve asked. 

"Not much," Clint said. "We're planning to go back to that camp place again this year. Team building or whatever." They weren't much of a team, especially without Steve to lead them and knowing that they would be losing Tony, Bruce, and Carol (who wasn't officially part of the group but turned up occasionally anyway) at the end of the year. Clint wondered if it would even continue the year after, or if Mr. Coulson would finally give up on it.   
"What about this summer?" Steve asked. "Not for the group, but... in general. Do you all already have plans?"

"I'm probably working for my father," Carol said, "if he'll let me. Which he might not, even though I'm every bit as good at construction as my brothers, because I'm a girl." She rolled her eyes. "I'm not sure I really _want_ to, to be honest. It's just... all that testosterone gets to be a bit much, and if you actually try to call them on their bullshit, of course they're 'only joking, don't take it personally.'" 

"I was probably going to see about getting in with some kind of landscaping crew or something," Clint said. "Mowing lawns, that kind of thing." He shrugged. "Why?"

"Because the camp is looking for people again, and I thought some of you might be interested. I'm pretty sure that they would be happy to have you and Natasha back this year," he said. "You worked hard last year, and they're always happy when they can get returning people, because it means they don't have to spend as much time on training you, since you already have a pretty good idea of what the job is."

Clint looked at Natasha, who raised an eyebrow, lifted one shoulder and let it fall. "We'll think about it," Clint said. It might be better than slaving all day under the burning sun cleaning up other people's yards... but then again, it might not. 

"You might even get paid more, since it's your second year," Steve said, obviously trying to encourage them. "Then again, you might not. I don't know what the budget is. But it's probably more than you would make with pretty much any other summer job." 

"We will think about it," Natasha repeated. "Is not a no."

Steve nodded, then looked at Bruce and Tony. "Are you two going back to that camp?" he asked.

Tony shook his head. "We can't. You have to still be in high school. I'm thinking about looking for an internship," he said. "Or maybe traveling. I haven't decided yet." 

Because _he_ didn't have to worry about making money over the summer, or ever, really, Clint thought. Although he wasn't actually sure if that was true. And if it was, the fact that Tony was still planning to go to college – early, even – and do something with his life... well, he didn't know what that meant, exactly, but it was better than just being an asshole and spending all kinds of money that he didn't earn at all. 

"Have you heard back from schools yet?" Steve asked Bruce.

He nodded. "A few of them," he said. "I got into everywhere that I applied. I'm waiting on financial aid information, but as long as that comes through, I'll probably be going to MIT, too." He glanced at Tony, who was focused on picking apart his sandwich like there was something in it that offended him.

"What about you?" Steve looked at Carol, smiling. "What are your plans for next year?" He stopped himself, frowned slightly. "You _are_ a senior, right? I'm not remembering that wrong?"

"I'm a senior," she said. "I'm still figuring some things out. Nothing's definite." There was something in her tone that said that it wasn't a good idea to ask for more details, and thankfully talk turned to other things.

The afternoon was spent sifting and sorting and sneezing as they kicked up more dust than Clint had ever seen in his life. Which was his own fault for volunteering to go up to the attic, but he would rather just lug stuff from up there to down into the main part of the house, dusting it carefully before letting it get anywhere near Steve. Natasha went with him, and when they'd gotten it about half emptied, she sat down on top of one of the trunks, reaching out to pull him down next to her. 

_Everything okay?_ , he asked, when she didn't say anything. 

She shrugged. _Is this what it's like for normal people?_ , she asked finally. _There's so much **stuff**._

_I know,_ Clint said, then, _I don't know. I think so, maybe._ He frowned. He'd been thinking the same thing, or close enough. He was used to being able to pack his entire life into bags that he could easily carry from one place to another, and to give up anything that didn't fit without much sentimentality. To have an entire house filled with things that all seemed to mean something... he couldn't imagine it.

_Maybe we're lucky,_ Natasha mused. 

_Maybe we are,_ Clint agreed. _Although it might be nice to actually feel like there was someplace I belonged, for real. Forever._ The Sullivans' wasn't that place. It was a good enough place to be for now, but not forever.

_Don't you?_ , Natasha asked.

Clint looked at her, at her finger pointed to his chest, at her wide eyes and arched eyebrows, her expression a question mark in the language that they shared, and he reached out and tucked her hair behind her ears, pressing her hand over his heart. He didn't answer. He didn't need to. She already knew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who missed it, two deleted scenes were posted this week: [College Admissions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1503317%22), which focuses on Bruce and Tony, and [Coming to America](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1525457), which deals with Natasha's first few days with her uncle. Enjoy!


	44. Chapter 44

Mrs. Sullivan actually jumped when she turned and saw Clint in the kitchen. "What are you doing up?" she asked, her hand pressed over her heart like she needed to physically hold it in place. "It's Saturday."

As if he didn't know. As if he wasn't acutely aware of the fact that it was the weekend, and yet here he was, up as early as he would be to go to school, practically. As if he wasn't actually headed there. But she didn't know that, because he hadn't told her. He hadn't told anyone but the school guidance counselor, and only because he'd needed her to sign off on the form that said he qualified to have the testing fee waived because he was a foster kid and therefore assumed to be broke. (Why the school certified that rather than his foster parents, he wasn't sure, but he was glad, because the last thing he needed was the Sullivans on his case about this.)

"Where are you going?" she asked, pouring him coffee into a travel mug even before she poured her own into the World's Greatest Mom mug that had been given to her by some kid at some point. He wondered if she even remembered which one. He'd gone through one of the "family" albums once when he'd been home alone, just curious, and there had been so many different faces over the years. Some of them only showed up in one or two pictures, like they hadn't stuck around long. Whether by chance or choice, he didn't know.

"School," he said, trying to decide if he had time to make something to eat. Probably if he asked she would do it for him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to have her go to the trouble. It would only call attention to the situation, which was the last thing he wanted to do. Except it was kind of too late. 

But his stomach was in knots and he wasn't sure he could keep much of anything down, so he just popped a few pieces of bread into the toaster, watching them like it would make them brown faster.

"Why are you going to school on a Saturday morning?" she asked, lines forming on her forehead as she frowned. He couldn't tell if she was annoyed with him (had she asked more than once already and he just hadn't heard?) or just confused, or maybe wondering if he'd told her something and she'd forgotten. He had no doubt that she'd already checked the calendar to see if anything was written there. There wasn't. His color was purple (she'd apologized, saying it was the only color left, and he'd told her he didn't mind) and there wasn't much of it on the large re-usable calendar that graced the front of the refrigerator. Not like the younger boys, with activities and appointments all over the place. But they still needed rides everywhere, so the Sullivans had to know their every move. Clint mostly took care of himself.

"I've just got a thing I've gotta do," Clint said, cagey for no good reason, really, except he didn't want them making a big deal about it. He didn't want anyone making a big deal about it, because it didn't actually really mean anything. It didn't mean he was committing to anything, any future plans, but if he told anyone, they would assume it did. (His guidance counselor sure had seemed to think it did, and he'd given up on trying to correct her.)

"What thing?" Mrs. Sullivan asked, the corners of her mouth turning down further. "Is there another play?"

"No."

"Are you in trouble?"

"No."

"Is it something to do with that group you go to?" He didn't remember ever telling her about Mr. Coulson's group... but that didn't necessarily mean that he hadn't. Or maybe the school had told her; he didn't know. "You said there might be a trip."

"That's not 'til later in the month," Clint said. 

"Then what?" she asked. "You know I don't like it when people lie—"

"I'm not lying," Clint said, too quick and too loud. He instantly regretted it. "Sorry. I'm not lying. I just... I'm not telling you everything, I guess." He shrugged. "It's no big deal. There's just this thing going on, this, uh, college thing. Not mandatory, but they push it pretty hard so... I figured I would go, get them off my back about it."

Which wasn't _exactly_ a lie. 

Mrs. Sullivan looked like she didn't quite believe him, and of course she shouldn't quite believe him, but at least the lines in her face smoothed out. "I don't remember hearing anything about it," she said. "But we get so much from all of the schools, I probably just overlooked it. Strange that they would schedule something like that so early on a Saturday. I don't know how they expect teenagers to be at their best on a day when they would normally sleep until noon if allowed." 

Clint actually smiled at that. "Yeah, go figure," he said. They didn't always get along, but sometimes his foster mother said or did something that reminded him that she did have at least some clue what it was like to be young. 

"Did you want me to make you something to eat? What time do you have to be there?" she asked. "I could make you some eggs to go with your toast."

"You don't have to do that," Clint said. "I'm okay."

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah. I gotta go in a few minutes anyway." He spread peanut butter onto his toast and put the two pieces together into a sandwich. "I don't know if I'll be back later or if I'm going straight to Natasha's," he said. 

"All right," she said, although it was clear she wasn't thrilled about the fact that he was obviously making plans without even bothering to ask. "Just text me to let me know." At least she'd figured out that talking on the phone didn't always work out great for him, and had allowed herself to be pulled into the wonderful world of text messages. She'd actually admitted that in some ways it was helpful, because if she forgot something that had been said, she could just go back and check the conversation.

Clint grabbed his coffee, made sure the lid was on securely, and headed out to his car. It was actually a little early to be leaving, but he didn't want to stay in the kitchen with Mrs. Sullivan, worried that she was going to decide to ask more questions about the nature of this college prep event that he was going to. He hadn't slept well the night before, and he'd finally given up and just gotten up and gone downstairs, thinking that maybe he could get ready undisturbed. No such luck, and now he was sitting in the school parking lot, practically the first one there, and thinking maybe he should just forget the whole thing.

What was the point? All this test was going to do, probably, was prove how dumb he was, and once that was down on paper, an official number that told him just how far below average he was, what chance did he have? But it would get his guidance counselor off his back, if he could prove once and for all that he was absolutely, 100% _not_ college material.

He saw Mr. Fury's car pull into the lot, and slumped down, hoping that the girls wouldn't look around and see his car. There was no way they wouldn't recognize it. 

Would Natasha be pissed that he hadn't told her? He hadn't _not_ told her, either, exactly. It had just never come up. She'd mentioned that she was taking the test, and he'd wished her good luck, and that had basically been the extent of it. He just didn't want the pressure of her knowing, because then maybe she'd start to think that he was smarter than he actually was, that there was a chance of him being something other than a carnie or a construction worker or landscaper when he grew up.

Hell, he was already grown up. He was eighteen, the same age or older than the seniors, who all had their futures basically figured out. (Well, maybe not Carol so much...) But he wasn't like them. He wasn't a scientific genius like Bruce. He couldn't build a computer from scratch, or create little robot assistants like Tony had. He wasn't just generally overall smart and willing to throw himself head first into whatever came his way like Carol. 

He was just kidding himself with even being here. Probably he should just kind of chalk it up as a rite of passage type thing, one of those things that Normal Teenagers do, and move on. Take the test but not even bother to check the results, because really, what good would it do? He didn't need to know in stark black and white just how hopeless he was.

Neither Natasha nor Jessica turned around and saw him as they headed into the building, and he hoped that he could manage to dodge them until he saw them later at Mr. Fury's house. More cars arrived, and students (juniors mostly, but Clint thought he saw a few that were younger and one or two that were older heading in, too) started to head into the building, shuffling along in various states of half awake. 

Despite being one of the first to arrive, he was one of the last inside. By the time he got in there, they were already being directed into various rooms, which seemed to have been assigned alphabetically... and B was close to D in the alphabet, which meant he and Jess were in the same room.

She waved when she saw him, sidled over even though they were supposed to be finding their seats. "You got forced into this too?" she asked. 

Clint shrugged. "I guess."

"Mr. Fury said that even if I wasn't sure if I wanted to go to college, I needed to take the test, just in case," she said, rolling her eyes. "Seems kind of pointless. What's it going to prove?"

"I think it's supposed to prove how smart we are... or not," Clint said. 

"Being able to fill in the right bubbles doesn't really measure how smart someone is," Jessica said. "How could it? There's more to being smart than just knowing how to solve math problems that most people will never actually need to know how to solve in the real world." 

She had a point, Clint thought. Most of these kids might be able to get a good score on this test, which would help them get into college, but... then what? Even if they got through college, got a piece of paper saying that they had made it through four years of so-called higher education, did that really mean they were ready for the real world? 

He, on the other hand, knew all about the real world, and what it really took to get ahead. Jessica knew about the real world, too, at least some of it. She knew what it was like to have to deal with what life threw at you, anyway, and had gotten herself out of it on her own. _That_ was a kind of intelligence that couldn't be taught in school, but that would probably serve her better once she was out there having to live her own life.

And Natasha? She was smart, smart enough for this test, maybe, but would the fact that her English was still not perfect affect her? And if it did, what did that really say? She knew three languages fluently (and he wasn't sure she didn't have bits and pieces of a few others) and so what if, in the end, a piece of paper said that she didn't score as high as people who knew how to pick the right answers from the multiple choice options?

Clint was tempted - _strongly_ tempted – to just walk out. Jessica was right. This didn't prove anything, and by even sitting down to take the test, he was just letting himself become part of the problem. He was letting the machine suck him in and spit him out in a shape that better suited their needs – whoever _they_ were – instead of his own.

It was only when he realized that at least some of his thoughts sounded like his father's drunken ranting about how the government was trying to control their lives, and how the man (whoever _that_ was) was always ready to step on the little guy, and on and on, that he decided okay, fine, he would let himself be a cog for a little while... he just wasn't going to hang his entire future on the outcome of one stupid test.

One stupid test that took a long, long time to take. It felt like hours. It _was_ hours, and by the time he was done he felt wrung out. After a while, everything just looked the same, and he got worried that he was going to run out of time and started guessing a little more than he probably should have. He remembered one of his teachers saying something about how getting something wrong was better than leaving it blank, but maybe it had been the other way around, and maybe he'd just shot himself in the foot.

It didn't help, either, that his stomach was growling for most of the last hour of the test, loud enough that he was pretty sure some of the people sitting closest to him could hear it, based on the strange and sometimes angry looks that were shot in his direction. Or maybe they weren't actually looking at him at all. Maybe they were just confused or pissed off by the test and it just happened that their head was turned his way.

Finally, they were released. Jessica caught up to him in the hall, looking like she'd just run a few laps... although she was in good enough shape he thought maybe she would have done better with the running. She rolled her eyes at him. "Let's fine Natasha," she said. "Are you coming over?"

"I don't—" Clint started, but Jessica didn't even give him a chance to finish. 

"Of course you are," she said. "You two are practically joined at the hip." She nudged him forward with her elbow, toward the room where the latter part of the alphabet had been holed up for their own torture session.

"Look what I found," Jessica said when they caught up to Natasha. 

Natasha turned, looking slightly dazed, and her forehead furrowed when she saw Clint. _You didn't say you were..._ But she didn't finish the sentence. 

_Neither did you,_ Clint pointed out. 

And that was the end of that conversation, if it could even be called that. She just shrugged and fell into step beside him. _Are you coming over?_ , she asked after a minute. 

_Do you want me to?_

She looked up at him, a flat stare that said clearer than any words in any language, 'Are you serious?' 

He grinned. _You never know. You could have plans... like taking a nap._

_I can nap with you there._

_Promise?_

"God, you two and your secret language," Jess said, in mock (or maybe not so mock) annoyance. "Can't you just talk like normal people?"

This time Natasha's glare was not quite as friendly. "We are not normal people," she said, her tone hard, cold, and Clint couldn't tell if it was an act or if she was genuinely annoyed. "Why we should pretend for your benefit, or anyone else's?"

Jessica held her hands up. "Joking," she said. "It was a joke."

"Not funny," Natasha said.

"Yeah," Jessica said. "I kinda got that." She fished her phone out of her pocket and walked off – Clint assumed she was going to call Carol.

_Your place, or somewhere else?_ , Clint asked.

_Somewhere else,_ Natasha said. _Anywhere else._

_Okay._ He offered her his hand, and was relieved when she took it. Whatever else was going on, in his head and in hers, at least he – they – still had that. He didn't know where they were going, but he wasn't sure at this point that the destination mattered.


	45. Chapter 45

"I want a garden," Jessica announced. They were in the kitchen at Mr. Fury's house, allegedly working on homework but they were all finding it hard to focus with the sun shining outside. It finally felt like spring, after a few days that teased at it but then went right back into cold, wet, windy, and otherwise raw conditions that made them think winter wasn't quite done with them after all. 

Natasha looked up from her math, which she'd been scowling at for the last five minutes without making a mark on the page. It wasn't that she didn't know how to do it, Clint was pretty sure. It was just that she didn't want to. "Why?" she asked.

"And a picnic table," Jess added, as if she hadn't heard. "We need a picnic table. There's a grill, but how are you supposed to have a good picnic without a table?"

"On a blanket on the ground," Carol suggested. "That's pretty traditional."

"Sure," Jess said, "if you don't mind sharing your food with ants." She grinned. "Come on. Am I wrong?"

"What you are going to do with garden?" Natasha asked. 

"Grow things," Jessica replied, in a tone that clearly said, 'Shouldn't it be obvious?' "What else would you do with a garden?"

"Where you are going to put it?" Natasha asked. 

"Back there," Jessica said, pointing out the window into the yard. "There's plenty of room, and we wouldn't need a big one when we're only feeding... well, five people, a lot of the time, but technically three people."

"What are you putting in the yard?" Mr. Fury asked, coming into the kitchen. 

"A garden," Jessica said. 

"And a picnic table," Carol added.

"In _my_ yard?" Mr. Fury asked. "You're going to dig up my yard for a garden?"

"Why not?" Jessica asked. "It's not like you're using it for anything. It'll be less to mow."

"Which means less money for whoever's doing the mowing," Mr. Fury said. "Or did I not mention that part?"

He hadn't, and Clint wondered if that offer applied to him, or just to the girls who actually lived here. He couldn't actually imagine Jessica pushing a lawnmower around, or Natasha either. Not that they weren't capable, but he just didn't see either of them being particularly enthusiastic about the prospect, even if they were getting paid. (Although if the price was right, neither of them would say no. That much he was sure of.)

"There's still plenty of grass," Jessica argued. "Like... you don't have kids. Why do you even need a yard that big?"

Or a house this big, Clint thought, but he didn't say it. He hadn't really thought much about it before, but it struck him then that a man living by himself didn't necessarily need a house with three bedrooms. He'd gotten the sense that Nat and Jess weren't the first kids that Mr. Fury had taken in in an emergency situation, although there was no evidence of it, but it didn't seem like it was a regular thing. 

"I like it," Mr. Fury said. "I like having space."

"Well, there would still be lots of _space_ even with a garden," Jessica said. 

"Why don't I look into a CSA?" Mr. Fury suggested. "All the fresh vegetables we could possibly need, none of the work."

They all looked at him blankly. "What's a CSA?" Clint finally asked, because apparently none of the girls were going to ask. Carol looked like she was trying to puzzle it out herself, or maybe that she'd heard it before but couldn't remember, Natasha had that look on her face that she got sometimes when she didn't know something but assumed that everyone else did so she didn't want to ask about it, and Jessica just looked stubborn.

"Community supported agriculture," Mr. Fury explained. "Basically, a farm grows a lot of vegetables, and people from the community pay money to get a portion of those vegetables all summer. Every week you go and pick up whatever they have for you. Usually you end up with more than you can find a way to use in the course of a week, in my experience."

"I don't just want _vegetables_ ," Jessica said. "We can get those at the supermarket. That's not the _point_?"

"What's the point, then?" Mr. Fury asked.

"The point is I want a _garden_. I want to plant the seeds and watch them grow and pick the vegetables and turn them into food." She looked like she was going to say more, but then just shrugged. "I don't see what the big deal is."

"The big deal is that I don't want you digging up my yard and then getting bored and leaving it for someone else to do, or having it all just die," Mr. Fury said. "But—"

"Fuck you," Jessica said, and it was as if all of the air had been sucked from the room. 

"Jessica," Mr. Fury said, his voice soft and a little bit dangerous. "I think you need to—"

"Fuck. You." She stood up, her arms crossed over her chest. "Who the fuck do you think you are?"

"Jessica, you—"

"No. No, _you_ ," she said. "When have I ever not finished what I started?" she asked. "When have I ever done less than what was expected of me? I get up every day, I go to school, I do my work, come home, do my homework. I get good grades even though half the time I have to unlearn what I've been taught so I relearn it the right way, or I wasn't taught at all in the first place so now I'm playing catch-up, and I do what you ask me to here, and I don't bitch about it, I don't complain, I just do it because that's the rules, that's the arrangement, and it's a fair enough one that I don't mind going along with it. So what makes you think that if I do this, I'm not going to actually do it? That I won't see it through?"

All eyes shifted from Jessica to Mr. Fury, looking for his reaction, waiting for him to explode. You couldn't just say stuff like that him, to _any_ adult, and get away with it. They all knew it, and Clint was sure that Jessica knew it too, so what had possessed her to think that just because usually Mr. Fury was pretty calm, good about listening, fair... what made her think that she could just say what she wanted to him?

He didn't blow up. He looked like he wanted to, but instead he took a deep breath, let it out slowly, then took another, and a third, until he looked less like he was going to reach out and throttle her and more like their unflappable school principal.

"Two things," he said. "First – you're right. You always see through what you start, and it was unfair of me to think that this would be different. So if you want a garden, you can have a garden, but understand that it is _your_ responsibility, and you can't assume that anyone else is going to help you with it." He held up a hand before she could say anything. "Second – if you _ever_ use that kind of language directed at me again, you are going to find yourself wishing you hadn't, because you will not have _any_ of the privileges that you currently enjoy. I'm giving you a pass – a one time pass – on this, but never again. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Jessica said. "Sir." 

"Good," he said. "I will give you some money to get things started, since it would have cost to join a CSA." He pulled out his wallet and handed her several folded bills. "I expect change, and receipts."

Jessica nodded, and Clint couldn't tell from her face whether she was still pissed, or whether she was counting her blessings that Mr. Fury hadn't lost it on her, or what.

"Why don't we go now?" Carol asked. "To Home Depot or wherever. Get whatever one needs to start a garden." 

_And out of the house,_ Clint was pretty sure she wasn't saying. He didn't know if he and Natasha were included in that invitation, but since Natasha stood up when Carol did, he moved to follow.

The trip to the store was quiet. Clint watched Natasha out of the corner of his eye, wondering what was going on in her head but not sure he wanted to ask. He thought about reaching out to her, offering some kind of physical comfort even if he didn't have the words, but he wasn't sure she actually needed it. For all he knew, she was angry at Jessica... but if that was the case, she probably would have gone to her room, not gotten in the car to help get whatever was needed to turn a piece of ground into a garden.

They mostly followed Jessica around, watching as she looked over the plants and packets of seeds and gardening tools, frowning and scribbling on a piece of paper that she'd gotten from one of the greenhouse attendants, then pulling out her phone and tapping numbers into her calculator, making a face and starting over.

"Don't look at me like that," she said, glancing up. She didn't seem to be speaking to any of them in particular. "I'm trying to figure out the best way to spend the money to get as much as we can for it." 

Clint wondered if that was something that she'd been taught where she grew up. He'd been under the impression that they were mostly self-sufficient, but then no one could produce all of their food, and they'd seen her mother and some of the others at the mall, so obviously they did at least _some_ of their shopping in regular stores. 

"At least you're not pulling out a binder full of coupons, trying to figure out how to get everything for nothing," Carol said, her tone teasing. "Have you ever seen one of those shows? It's amazing, but I can't imagine dedicating that much of my time to cutting out coupons and organizing them and all of that. And who needs that many bottles of ketchup, anyway? It's like they're preparing for the apocalypse or something."

"Maybe they are just worried they will run out of food," Natasha said. 

"I'm pretty sure that there's no way they're going to run out of food before it goes bad," Carol said. "Unless they're feeding like thirty people every day."

Natasha shrugged. Clint thought he understood where she was coming from, even if Carol didn't. Carol probably hadn't ever had to worry about where her next meal was coming from, or if it was coming at all. He didn't know what it had been like in the orphanage, how bad things were there, because she didn't really talk about it and he didn't ask, but he couldn't imagine that food had been given freely. And with her uncle... well, he remember those early days when she'd come to school without lunch and without money to buy it, so he was pretty sure food hadn't always been a certain thing there.

"Okay," Jessica said. "I think I've got it." She rattled off a list of things that she was going to plant, then asked if there was anything they wanted that she'd missed. Clint couldn't think of anything, and neither could Carol or Natasha, so they got everything together and brought it to the checkout.

When she got her receipt, Jessica grinned. "With money to spare," she said. "Not much, but he'll get his change." 

"You're lucky he gave you money at all," Natasha said. "You're lucky he did not tell you to get out."

"He can't do that," Jess said. 

Natasha's eyebrows went up. "You think he can't? He does not have to keep you. You are not his. You make him angry enough, he calls someone and they come take you away, take you somewhere else where maybe is not so good."

"He won't do that," Jessica said, but she looked a little less sure now.

"He _didn't_ do that," Carol said. "Come on, guys. If we're going to get this garden going, we should get back." She started to head back to the parking lot, but then got distracted as they walked past the lumber. "Hold on. I just want to check something." She tossed Jess her keys. "You guys go put that stuff in the car. I'll be right out."

So they did, and by the time they'd gotten everything situated in such a way that none of the containers holding plants that Jess had decided would be easier to buy already sprouted than to start from seed would spill, and none of the garden implements were likely to do anyone in the car an injury if Carol had to brake abruptly, Carol had rejoined them. 

"What was that about?" Jessica asked.

Carol shrugged. "I remembered I had to check on something for my dad," she said. 

Clint wasn't sure he believed her, but he wasn't going to call her out on it. The last thing they needed was anyone starting any more fights when they'd so narrowly avoided disaster earlier.

Back at the house, Jessica pulled out a piece of graph paper that she'd used to plot something out. When Clint looked over her shoulder to see it, it showed a garden, where everything should go, how far apart the rows should be, everything. Obviously her announcement earlier in the day hadn't just been a spur of the moment thing. She'd been thinking about this, planning it, and now she was ready to put it into action. She'd probably just been waiting for the weather to get warm enough.

They marked out the boundaries of the garden, and then came the hard part – turning the soil. They had to cut apart the grass in chunks and move it, then loosen the dirt underneath so that they could actually mark out rows and start planting. It was backbreaking work, and by the time they were done they were all sore and dirty, their hands blistered despite the gloves they were to try and protect themselves. 

The hell of it was, Clint realized, that Jessica hadn't even asked them to help. They'd just done it. Her project, that she was so invested in she was willing to get in Mr. Fury's face about it, had become their project. And he suspected this was only the beginning.

By the time they went in, it was getting late, and they hadn't actually managed to get any seeds or plants in the ground. It was Natasha's turn to make dinner, and she looked rather helplessly around. 

"It's all right," Mr. Fury said. "I already called for Chinese."

She frowned. "You didn't have to do that," she said. "I would have cooked."

"I know you would have," Mr. Fury said, "but you don't have to. Go get cleaned up. By the time you all turn yourselves back into people instead of... whatever you are right now, it should be here." 

"Yes sir," she said, and went upstairs. 

Four quick showers later (because they didn't feel like dealing with the teasing from Carol and face-making from Jess that would have gone along with showering together) they all headed back downstairs, their stomachs growling when they smelled the food.

They dug in, and by the time they were done, there were no leftovers. They all slept well that night.

In the morning, Clint woke up groaning, muscles he didn't even know he had sore. He got up to go to the bathroom, careful to not jostle Natasha too much. She stirred, one hand worming out of the blankets to start to sign something, but he leaned down and kissed her cheek, whispering to her that he would be right back.

He was surprised to find the bathroom door closed, and even more surprised when the person who came out when it finally opened (it felt like ages, but that was probably just his bladder talking) was Carol. Of all of them, she tended to be the one most inclined to sleep in. (She was also the one least plagued by nightmares, Clint assumed, which probably had a lot to do with it.)

She said something to him, but he didn't have his hearing aids in, so he could only guess what she was saying. Without the audio clues to accompany it, lipreading was a pretty inexact thing. He thought maybe she said something about 'idea' and 'help'.

"Hold on," he said, and went back into Natasha's room, grabbing his hearing aids and coming back out. "What was that?"

"Oh right," Carol said. "I said that I have an idea, but I need your help."

"What is it?" Clint asked. He wasn't sure he wanted to get pulled into any more of other people's ideas. 

"A picnic table," Carol said. "They had some already made, but they were pretty pricey. With my father's tools and my know-how, we just have to buy the wood and we can make one a lot cheaper. Well, the wood and the finish, but my dad might have some of that lying around, too."

"Have you ever made a picnic table before?" Clint asked.

"I helped make one once," Carol said. "It's not that hard, I promise. And they'll love it."

"When... when are we going to do this?" Clint asked. 

"Now," Carol said. "Today. I already called by dad and he was surprisingly okay with letting me borrow stuff, including his truck – he must have had a good night last night, and work's picking up for him so he's been in a better mood – so we just need to go get that, then get the wood, bring it back here, and get to work."

"It won't be a surprise if they see us working on it," Clint said.

"I didn't mean for it to be," Carol said. "Not entirely. But we could always work on it in the front and they can work on the garden in the back."

"You think we can do it in a day?" Clint asked.

"Why not? If we get started early enough, it should be ready by dinner time. Maybe not the finish, but we can have a pizza picnic. Go tell your girl you've got a hot date with a circular saw and let's get moving."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Mother's Day to any moms out there!
> 
> I posted a deleted scene yesterday that shows the first couple of days of school from Natasha's POV: [School Daze](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1593446)
> 
> Also, there was a deleted scene last week if anyone missed it: [Odinson Family Dinner](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1551470)


	46. Chapter 46

"Really?" Tony asked. "This is a thing that people do?"

"One man's trash is another man's treasure," Bruce replied, then flashed a slightly guilty look in Steve's direction. "Not that I'm calling your mom's stuff trash. It's just—"

"I know," Steve said, with a smile that looked slightly brittle around the edges. "It's just a saying. And yes, this is a thing that people do to get rid of stuff that they don't want or need anymore."

"Huh." Tony looked around. "If you say so."

Clint picked up a box and carried it out to the front lawn, where blankets were spread out to display the items that Steve had decided he didn't need to keep, but thought might be worth something to someone else... but also might be worth a dime or a dollar in his pocket. Anything that was left over at the end of the weekend would get donated.

It had originally been planned for the weekend before, until Steve realized that it was Mother's Day, and he hadn't been able to face the thought of selling off things that were steeped in memories (but not so precious that he couldn't let them go) on a day meant to celebrate the woman whose things they had been. (Clint had forgotten that Mother's Day was a thing until it was too late to do anything about it, and even though Mrs. Sullivan hadn't said anything, he sensed that she was a little disappointed that he hadn't even gotten a card. But she wasn't his mother, and he didn't pretend she was, and what had she expected, really?)

It had been Peggy's idea, apparently, to have a yard sale instead of just carting it all to Goodwill from the get-go. Clint hadn't been part of that conversation, but he wondered what argument she had come up with that had convinced do-gooder Steve that it was okay for him to maybe make a little bit of money off of the stuff his mother had left behind. He could imagine that Steve had been against it, that he didn't want – would he call it blood money? Probably not, and it wasn't that anyway – to get anything from his mother's death, only wanted to make sure that other people had the things that they needed. 

Sometimes he forgot, though, that _he_ was one of the people who needed things, like money to pay a security deposit on whatever place they decided to move into once the house was sold. 

Whatever had been said, it had obviously convinced him, and now they were all here helping to set things up, while a few early bird bargain hunters already started to congregate on the sidewalk in front. 

"Like vultures," he heard Jessica mutter. "Waiting for carrion."

"That's a little gruesome," Carol replied. "They don't know."

Jessica shrugged. "It's still weird. Everything says eight o'clock, and it's barely seven-thirty, and they're just... _lurking_."

A few of them seemed to be neighbors, because they actually dared to approach, offering their condolences to Steve even as their eyes darted to this or that item, and Clint couldn't help thinking that Jessica wasn't entirely wrong.

"A hand here?" Steve called, and Clint pushed himself up from where he'd been spreading out knick-knacks for display to go help Steve move out some of the furniture that had been determined to be superfluous. Those were the things that they were really hoping would sell, because none of them actually had a car big enough to move them to Goodwill, although Carol had said that if it came down to it, she would ask her father to borrow his truck.

They had everything set up by quarter to eight, and as soon as they stopped moving around, the carrion crows descended. Clint just got out of the way, figuring it was Steve's show now, and he was just there to be muscle if anything else needed moving – preferably from the lawn to someone else's car and away.

Natasha sat down beside him on the front steps of the house, nudging her shoulder against his. He turned and looked at her, thinking maybe she had something to say that she didn't want to say out loud, but she just shrugged and smiled a little sleepily, Clint thought, but maybe he was just projecting. He hadn't slept well the night before.

Clint was honestly surprised by how much stuff was carted away in the first half an hour or so. Peggy (who was basically running the show on Steve's behalf) looked pleased, and he could tell that she was trying to spread a little of that enthusiasm to Steve, with somewhat tepid results.

Once the initial wave passed, there was a lull, and they moved things around a little to fill in the gaps, making it easier to see everything on display, then going back to their respective places, where they hunched into themselves in pairs, leaning into each other for support or warmth in the early morning chill. They put on happy faces when people showed up, but it was mostly for show, especially on Steve's part.

By the early afternoon when they shut things down, they'd sold quite a bit of stuff, and Peggy, at least, seemed pleased with the amount of money that they'd made. "You guys don't have to stick around," Steve said, once everything was back in the garage for the night. "Thank you for helping, though."

"We'll see you in the morning," Bruce assured him, reaching out to pat his shoulder. 

"You don't—"

"But we will," Bruce said. 

*

The next morning Clint stopped at Dunkin Donuts on the way to Steve's house, because the idea of facing another day of watching people poke through the no longer needed items of a dead woman without coffee and sugar in his system was more than he could handle. 

"I could kiss you," Tony said, grabbing a donut and a cup of coffee from the Box O' Joe. "But I won't," he added with a wink. "Natasha might get jealous."

"Of you?" She sniffed. "Never."

Tony blinked, his mouth hanging slightly open until he stuffed the donut into it. Maybe he didn't know how to respond to that; it probably wasn't often that people told him they weren't jealous of him and actually meant it. 

"Thanks," Steve said, raising his cup in Clint's direction. "This... you didn't have to."

Clint shrugged. "Least I can do," he said. "Otherwise I might decide to just curl up on one of the blankets and take a nap, and you might decide to sell me for a nickel."

"I'm pretty sure you're worth at least a dollar," Carol replied, grinning. "Don't you think?" She directed the question at Natasha, who had a look on her face like she'd bit into something sour. "Joking," Carol said, her smile faltering. "It's just a joke."

Natasha shrugged, nodded, and didn't respond. Clint reached out to touch her but was stopped by the quick shake of her head. He kept his hands to himself, giving her the space she needed to get herself back together. Sometimes he forgot – not what had happened to Natasha, he would never forget that – but that the others didn't know what he did. They didn't know when their jokes were landmines, charged and ready to explode. Carol hadn't even been in their lives when it all went down, and those that had been... he was pretty sure some of them had put two and two together and come up with at least three and a half. 

Time passed slowly – too slowly – and Clint found himself wishing that they'd actually taken Steve up on his offer to just come back at the end to help move stuff back into the garage, or into cars to take to the donation center. Did they really _all_ need to be here?

A woman came up during one of the lulls, browsing over the items but it didn't look like she was actually interested in any of them. She finally stopped in front of Steve and looked at him. "I'm so sorry for your loss," she said. "Your mother was an amazing woman."

"Thanks," Steve said. "Thank you." Because what else was he going to say? 

"I was... we used to talk, sometimes, when we were in getting chemo. The first time she got sick. It seems like so long ago, and yet like it was yesterday. I tried to keep in touch, but... it got hard, there at the end." She smiled. "I guess I don't need to tell you that, how hard it got. I... I needed to focus on living, and..."

"I'm sure she understood," Steve said. "She wasn't much for holding grudges, or any kind of negativity. 'What good did it do, to hold that inside?' That's what she always said. 'Always look for the silver lining.'"

What possible silver lining could there be to losing both of your parents when you were just barely old enough to be considered capable of taking care of yourself?, Clint wondered. Although maybe the silver lining was that Steve _was_ considered old enough to take care of himself, so he hadn't ended up being yanked out of his home and put in foster care. 

Except he hadn't been yanked out of his home; his home had left him behind. And he could have left; he could have found a way to leave the Sullivans. Hell, now that he was eighteen he could leave at any time if he wanted to.

But his silver lining was sitting next to him, her hands clasped between her knees, her forehead furrowed. 

"That sounds like her," the woman said. "I just keep telling myself that even though the world is a poorer place without her in it, at least she's not in pain anymore. At least she's somewhere better."

Tony snorted and Bruce jabbed him with an elbow so hard it actually knocked him sideways. Tony opened his mouth like he was going to protest, then shut it quickly at the look that Bruce gave him. 

"That's what I tell myself, ma'am," Steve said. 

"And I'm sure she's watching over you, and smiling," the woman added. "She talked about you all the time, you know. She was so proud of you, how smart you are, and how talented. She was sure that you were going to do great things."

"Thank you," Steve said, and Clint could see he was trying not to squirm. "That's... that's nice of you to say."

"It's only the truth." The woman smiled, reached out and patted his arm. "Anyway, I just wanted to stop by and offer my condolences – I wasn't able to make it to the funeral, and then it just... well, time gets away from you, doesn't it? – and just... well, I'd like a little something to remember her by, if that's all right?"

"Take anything you want," Steve said, his voice gone thick like he had something stuck in his throat. 

"Thank you," she said, and picked up one of the little figurines that couldn't possibly have any real meaning to her, unless maybe she'd given it to Steve's mother, for all Clint knew, or maybe she just liked the fact that it was an angel and obviously she believed in that stuff. She reached into her purse, rifling around, but Steve stopped her.

"No charge, ma'am," he said. "You can have it."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes," Steve said firmly, and it sounded almost like he was saying, 'Now can you please go?' without actually saying it. 

"Thank you," she said. But she didn't leave right away, and when Steve's back was turned because someone else had approached, asking him about a table, she slipped money into Peggy's hand and pressed her finger to her lips, then left, crossing the street and getting into a car that looked like it had seen better days... a couple of decades ago.

Peggy looked at the money in her hand and nearly spilled the cash box in her haste to get up. But the woman was already pulling away even as she tried to flag her down. She looked at the bills again and shook her head.

"What is it?" Steve asked, holding out the $10.00 that the man had given him for the table. 

"She..." Peggy just opened her hand, showing five crisp bills. "I thought they were singles, and even that was too much but I figured she just wanted to help you out a little, and I wasn't going to argue, but..." 

They weren't singles. They were $100 bills. "I guess she wanted to help you out a lot."

"I can't take that," Steve said. "We need to..." But it was too late. The woman was gone, and she hadn't given a name and Clint was pretty sure that Steve had no idea who she was, had never seen her before. "Damn it."

They all looked at him then, and maybe he just didn't remember but Clint was pretty sure that was the first time that any of them (except maybe Peggy) had heard Steve swear. "It's okay," Peggy said. "I don't think it was an accident."

"It had to have been," Steve said. "Hopefully she'll realize it and come back."

But she didn't, and at the end of the day when they'd put everything that was left into boxes and driven it to Goodwill, Steve was left staring at $500 of a stranger's money that he didn't want. 

"What am I supposed to do with it?" he asked. "I can't just..."

"Use it to pay for moving costs," Bruce suggested. "You're going to need money for that, right?"

"Or repairs on the house," Carol said. "There's not a huge amount to do, but it still costs money if you don't have the supplies on hand." 

"You're overthinking this," Tony said. "Someone did a nice thing for you. Just accept it. It probably made her feel good about herself, being able to help out her old friend's son. Especially if she wasn't such a great friend when it really mattered."

The words came out slightly bitter, and Clint wondered what memory had prompted the tone. At least he didn't have to deal with that, with well-meaning people trying to make up for their failures after the fact. 

Because the people that he knew, or had known, weren't all that well-meaning, and they wouldn't have seen any action, or lack thereof, as a failure on their part... or at least they would have convinced themselves it was out of their hands, and wiped their hands clean of any obligation to get involved. 

"Maybe it's a sign," Jessica said. "Or... not a sign, but..." She shrugged. "It's a gift, and if you tried to track her down and return it she'll probably get upset, and it'll be awkward for everyone and just... take the money and be grateful." She squirmed like she wanted to crawl out of her own skin, and only settled when Carol wrapped her arms around her shoulders, from behind, resting her cheek against Jessica's hair.

Steve sighed. "I guess so," he said. He looked at the money, then around at everyone. "I guess the least I can do is buy everyone dinner as thanks for helping out." His eyes went from one face to another as if he was waiting for some kind of objection, but none came. "Do we want to go out or order in?"

Ordering in was the consensus, although it took a little longer for them to decide on what to get. By the time the food arrived, they were all starving, and dug in immediately, bringing their plates into the living room because there weren't enough chairs at the kitchen table, and the dining room table and its chairs were gone. They sat and sprawled around the room, still mostly in pairs. 

"Seriously, I can't thank you guys enough," Steve said when they'd started to slow down a little. "I couldn't have done all of this without you." 

Peggy reached out and squeezed his shoulder. "You know we've got your back," she said. "That's what friends are for."

"I know," Steve said. "And I couldn't ask for better ones."

Tony made a noise that sounded a little bit like choking, and for a second Clint thought Steve was going to leap across the room to give him the Heimlich or something, but Tony waved him off. "Sorry," he said. "I just got a little _verklempt_." He feigned wiping away a tear.

Carol pelted him with a wadded up napkin. "Be nice!"

"How was that not nice?" Tony asked, all wide-eyed innocence. "I am being absolutely sincere, and I am insulted that you would malign me for expressing my most heartfelt... feelings." 

Bruce snorted. "Eloquent."

Tony bowed, the gesture slightly awkward since he was sitting cross-legged on the floor. "Thank you."

Steve rolled his eyes, and after that he didn't say anything more about it. Clint didn't know if all of this was over, or if it ever would be for him. Clint felt like he ought to understand, but the truth was, he didn't. His parents were dead, and the thing he felt worst about was how little he felt.

He leaned into Natasha and she looked at him, one eyebrow quirked up. He shrugged, and she smiled, a quick crooked thing that didn't necessarily say or mean anything, except that she was there. They both were. 

But eventually he would have to go home, and so would she, and it wouldn't be to the same place tonight, not with tomorrow being a school day... and even though the sun was only just starting to set, Clint felt the night start to settle around him, and in the darkness at the edges of his mind, there was fire.


	47. Chapter 47

"At least it's not raining this year," Tony said. He had taken up residence in the back seat of the bus, his feet propped up on the seat across the aisle, reclining against his backpack. "Remember last year? It barely stopped raining the entire time."

Clint remembered. Natasha did, too, from the slightly strained look on her face. _It'll be better this year,_ he tried to reassure her. _It's all in the past now._

_I hope so,_ Natasha replied, and Clint wasn't sure whether she was hoping that it would be better, or that she hoped that it was all in the past, or both. He didn't ask, because he didn't want to dwell on it. 

"It feels weird without them here," Bruce said, looking around the bus like the missing members from the previous year would suddenly appear. "Incomplete, somehow."

Because Steve was their leader, Clint thought. They'd actually tried to convince Mr. Coulson to let them bring people along who weren't part of the group anymore, who weren't current students at the high school, but he'd told them that it would be a logistical nightmare (or something like that) and that wasn't the point anyway. This was supposed to be a group-building exercise for the group as it was, not as it had been.

But the group as it was didn't feel very much like a group, despite the fact that they were all more-or-less friends. (More in the case of, oh, Clint and Natasha and Carol and Jess, less in the case of Loki, who sat sullenly by himself, headphones in his ears and staring out the window.)

And then there was Bobbi, who still felt like an unknown factor. She'd been coming to the group's weekly meetings, but there was still a sort of distance between her and the rest of them, and Clint was pretty sure it wasn't because of her. They were all slow to trust (except maybe Carol) and they were fine as they were, he figured, so why open themselves up for potential... drama, he guessed... by letting her into the core of the group.

If it bothered her, she gave no indication.

The bus ride felt long, even as relative quiet settled (Tony was still talking, but then when _wasn't_ Tony talking?) over them. It was early on a Saturday morning – too early, Loki had grumbled, even (or especially) as his brother cheerfully waved to him as he climbed on the bus, beaming like a proud parent sending his kid off to camp. Not that Clint knew what that was like firsthand; he'd never been to camp and his parents had never been proud. But he'd seen movies.

Finally they arrived, and just in time because Natasha had brought him coffee and now his bladder was protesting the extended (and bumpy) bus ride. He found a bathroom while Mr. Coulson got them checked in, and then they were led to their cabins to put away their things.

Ms. Hill had come along as the chaperone for the girls – four of them this year, and all of them meant to be here, unlike last year when Pepper had been pulled in so Natasha wouldn't be the only girl on the trip – and she looked somewhat less than thrilled about the prospect. Maybe she was remembering the previous year, too.

"I thought segregation was illegal," Tony said. "I don't see why we shouldn't be allowed to choose our bunkmates according to our personal preferences, rather than—" Ms. Hill quelled him with a look, although Clint thought he heard him mutter something about how it didn't matter because Pepper wasn't there anyway. 

Even if she had been, Clint was pretty sure she would have objected to having to spend the night in the same space as Tony. Their relationship, such as it was, was better than when he'd originally met them, but it was still a far cry from what Clint got the impression Tony imagined it to be, or hoped it was, or pretended, or whatever was going on in that brain of his.

Clint stowed his stuff on a bunk and went back outside, not interested in listening to any squabbles that might arise from whose stuff went where in the bathroom. They were only there for two days; he didn't understand the need that Tony and Loki seemed to feel to spread out and make themselves at home.

"It's not _real_ camping if you have a cabin," Carol said. "Real camping involves tents and air mattresses if you're lucky and sticks and rocks in your back if you're not."

"And people do it on purpose?" Jess asked. "For fun?"

Carol laughed. "Yes. People do it on purpose, for fun. Weren't you ever a—" But then she stopped herself, her smile collapsing. "Sorry."

"For what?" Jess asked. 

"I was going to say, 'Weren't you ever a girl scout?' but obviously you never were. I mean, you never would have gotten the chance to be." 

Jessica screwed up her face and waved her hand. "You don't have to be sorry about that. You're more than welcome to forget my screwed up past. I wish I could." Carol reached out and rubbed her back, and Jessica shrugged and smiled. "Seriously, though. Don't worry about it." The smile shifted into a smirk. "Just promise me you'll never make me go 'real' camping."

"I don't make promises I can't keep," Carol said, and Jessica groaned. 

Mr. Coulson came out of the cabin then, Tony ahead of him and Loki behind like he'd decided it was in everyone's best interest if the two were physically separated. "Let's go meet our guide for the weekend," he said. "I think we're getting a tour first, then lunch, and then this afternoon we'll actually start in on some activities."

They followed a trail back to the main area, where a young man who barely looked older than them was waiting, a broad smile on his face as they approached. "Hello!" he said, a little too cheerfully. "Welcome!"

Only Carol managed a reply that was more than a mumble. _She would,_ Natasha signed, small so that it wouldn't draw attention, although Clint's badly suppressed snort of laughter got them a sideways look from the social worker and vice principal.

"I'm Mike, and I'm going to be your guide for the weekend. How many of you have been here before?" the young man asked. He looked around, doing a quick count and coming up with five, or possibly seven if their chaperones raised their hands. "So most of you," he said. "Or more than half, anyway. That's great. That means I can spend less time instructing you, and more time letting you help each other. I'll always be around for safety's sake, of course, but the best team building exercises happen when it's really the team working together, without outside intervention."

He started walking, and they all followed after him, because what choice did they have? He kept up a running commentary, pointing out various ropes courses and obstacles and activities they might tackle while they were here. Finally he stopped. "Why don't we all sit down here?" he suggested, indicating a ring of tree stumps or logs or something that were obviously intended to be seats. "You all know each other, but I'd like the chance to get to know a little bit about all of you. So why don't we go around, and you can give me your name, what grade you're in, an interesting fact about you, and one thing that you're afraid of."

Clint saw them all glancing quickly around at the last thing Mike listed off, like they weren't sure they'd all heard right and needed to check the reactions of the others to try to verify. But no, he was pretty sure that he, and everyone else, had heard exactly what he'd said. 

"That's a little bit... personal," Bruce ventured. 

"That's the point," Mike said. "Why don' you start?"

Bruce looked slightly green, and Clint was sure he was cursing himself for speaking up. "Um, all right. My name is Bruce... Banner... and I'm a senior, so I'm graduating in a few... I guess it's weeks now. I'm going to MIT in the fall. Uh, an interesting fact about me – wait, does that count as an interesting fact, that I'm going to MIT?"

Mike shrugged. "It can if you want it to."

"Okay," Bruce said. "Then... yeah, that's my interesting fact, I guess. One thing I'm afraid of?" The silence stretched, and Clint started to wonder if maybe if they all just refused to say anything Mike would have to give up on it, and what business of his was it anyway? But finally Bruce finished, so quietly that Natasha actually signed it for Clint in case he missed it. "I'm afraid of losing control."

"Thank you, Bruce," Mike said. "Why don't we just go around the circle this way?" He pointed at Tony and circled his finger around clockwise. 

"My name is Tony Stark – you may have heard of me, and if you haven't, you will." He grinned, and the thing was Clint didn't get the feeling he was saying it to be cocky (although that was kind of his default) but just because he honestly believed it to be true, and he probably wasn't wrong. "I'm also a senior, although I'm only supposed to be a junior this year, so that's an interesting fact, but more interesting is the fact that I just finished work on a robotic assistant to help me with my projects in my lab." He waggled his eyebrows. "One thing I'm afraid of is... disappointing... myself." He glanced quickly at the next person in the circle, like he was desperate to have him cover up the admission.

Carol was next, and she smiled and waved. "I'm Carol Danvers. Also a senior, future plans less certain. An interesting fact about me is that I've always dreamed of flying. Like, literally, I dream about flying all the time. One thing I'm afraid of is never going anywhere." She looked for a second like she might elaborate, but then she just looked at Jessica, handing over the reins, so to speak.

"I'm Jessica Drew, I'm a junior. An interesting fact about me is that I can't keep houseplants alive but I'm really good at gardening. One thing I'm afraid of is..." She pursed her lips, her eyes going up to the sky like she would find the answer there, and Clint wondered if she was actually not sure of the answer, or just not sure what she wanted to admit to. "One thing I'm afraid of is not asking enough questions," she said finally. "Or people who don't."

Natasha sat beside her, and she straightened her back slightly as she spoke. "My name is Natasha Romanova. I am junior. Originally I am from Russia. One thing I am afraid of is having to go back there for more than visit."

Which made it his turn, and Clint realized he probably should have been thinking about what he wanted to say. "Clint Barton," he said. "Junior, although probably I should be graduated by now if I'd been to normal school growing up, which I wasn't because I grew up in the circus, working probably way more than child labor laws would allow. So I guess that's an interesting fact." He smiled, shrugged. "One thing I'm afraid of is..." He flailed, because there were plenty of things that he was afraid of, but he wasn't sure he really wanted them out in the open for everyone to see. Finally he grasped onto something that at least they could understand without too much examination. "Losing the rest of my hearing."

He looked at Mr. Coulson, who sat next to him, but the man just looked to Ms. Hill, who looked to Loki. Loki opened his mouth, but Mike interrupted. "Wait, wait, wait. Just because you're the chaperones doesn't mean you're exempt," he said with a bright smile. 

The social worker's eyebrows went up, and Ms. Hill looked like she wanted to leap across the circle and throttle their guide, or at least give him a telling off. But Mr. Coulson must have sensed that they weren't likely to get out of it. "I'm Mr. Coulson – Phil Coulson. I'm the school social worker. An interesting fact about me is that I will be volunteering for several weeks this summer with Habitat for Humanity. One thing I'm afraid of is heights."

Mike smiled. "That could make for an interesting weekend," he said, "since I firmly believe in leading by example."

Ms. Hill still looked ready to kill. "I'm Maria Hill," she said, "but you can call me Ms. Hill. I'm the vice principal of the school. An interesting fact about me is that I serve in the Army Reserve. One thing I'm afraid of is spiders."

_Liar,_ Natasha signed. _We all told the truth, why should she get out of it?_

Mike looked over at her. "Was there something you wanted to say, Natasha?"

She flicked at glance at Clint, who shrugged slightly. "I don't believe you," she said, looking right at Ms. Hill. "I don't think you're afraid of spiders."

"And I don't think it's any of your business what I'm afraid of," Ms. Hill replied, a bit more acidly than maybe she meant, or maybe not. "So I guess I could say that I'm afraid of people infringing on my privacy." Her sidelong glare was for Mike, who at least had the good grace to squirm.

Bobbi jumped in, clearly determined to ease the tension. "I'm Bobbi Morse. Barbara, but no one but my mother calls me that and then only when she's annoyed with me. I'm a junior. An interesting fact about me is that I'm a black belt in Tae Kwon Do. One thing I'm afraid of is dying... again." Her tone was so cheerful as she said it that Clint almost thought he'd misheard, but the expressions on everyone else's faces told him he probably hadn't.

"I'm Loki O—Loki," the last member of the group said. "I'm also a junior. An interesting fact about me is that I have been going to the same summer camp since sixth grade. One thing I'm afraid of is never feeling like I belong anywhere."

There was a pause, and Clint wondered if this was something that Mike asked all of his groups, and if it was, what the usual answers he got were. Heights was probably on there, but other than that? Spiders, maybe. Failure, possibly. But he'd asked a question and they'd all actually answered honestly, and Clint got the feeling that maybe their guide hadn't quite been prepared for it. 

"Thank you all for sharing," he said finally. "That was very brave of you." He stood up, and they all followed suit. 

Their tour concluded at the mess hall (as they called the cafeteria) and when they went in lunch was waiting for them. There were other people there as well, and they looked up as they came in but no one seemed particularly interested in them. There hadn't been any other groups there last time, but then the weather had been bad and maybe anyone else who had had plans to come had rescheduled. That and it was a long weekend, and maybe more people thought it was a good time to get away without actually interrupting their normal routines.

They got their food and sat down to eat, and Clint let the chatter of his companions wash over him, not really trying to listen. Natasha sat across from him and he felt her foot nudge his under the table. When he looked up, she cocked her head. _You okay?_

_Fine,_ he told her. _You?_

_Why wouldn't I be?_

Clint shrugged. He didn't really know why she wouldn't be. After all, the worst parts of her life were probably (or at least hopefully) behind her. He wished he could say the same, but the really wasn't sure. There were a lot of years of his life left, and he had no idea what he was doing with any of them. College was pretty much out of the picture, if it had ever been in it in the future. They'd finally been able to check their SAT results, and although Clint's hadn't been as bad as he feared they might be, they fell very firmly in the range of "average" and he was pretty sure that's not what colleges were looking for.

Not that it mattered, he told himself. What would be the point of going when he didn't even know what to go for? He didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up; it had never been a question he'd been asked. He'd been born into the answer. Now... the world was supposed to feel wide open with possibilities, or at least that's what all of the posters around the guidance office said, but he couldn't quite make himself believe them, no matter how hard he tried.

Once they'd eaten, they went back outside, and just like the year before they started with activities that kept them close to the ground, giving the new people a chance to get acclimated and the group the opportunity to figure out their dynamic. 

And it was strange. Without Steve and Thor there, there wasn't a clear leader. Clint was surprised that Tony didn't step in and take charge, but then, when he thought about it, Tony could dominate a room with his presence, and people seemed inclined to do what he said, he wasn't actually a take-charge type unless it was in a realm where he was completely comfortable. And out here in the woods, he wasn't completely comfortable. In fact, Clint was pretty sure this was the exact opposite of his comfort zone.

Loki looked like he would have loved to step up and take charge, order them all around, but for some reason he didn't; maybe he just didn't want to have them all tell him where to stick it. Which would most likely be what happened, considering that he'd rubbed them all the wrong way on more than one occasion.

Carol seemed to be holding herself back, maybe because she was new and didn't want to upset anyone by stepping up and taking on the role of leader, or maybe she just didn't care. Whatever the case, they floundered a bit because they were all offering suggestions on how to accomplish something but no one actually seemed to want to decide on which suggestion was best.

It was Bobbi who finally stepped up after listening to the various ideas and suggested a plan of action that incorporated several of them, and no one argued, and the task they'd been set was accomplished. And if it took an embarrassingly long time, well... they would do better next time.

As the day went on, though, they all got a little more comfortable, and they took turns as one thing made more sense to one of them than the other. The solution to one problem might be obvious to one of them and not the others, and by the time they got to dinner, and the sun was sinking in the sky, they were actually comfortable enough with each other to express that.

Which was probably the whole point, Clint thought. 

After dinner they went back to the cabin area, and they were allowed to build a fire in one of the fire pits. They sat around it, Mr. Coulson and Ms. Hill sitting a little ways away at a picnic table, supervising while attempting to look like they weren't. 

They were given marshmallows, graham crackers, and chocolate, and for a while they were busy making s'mores. When they reached the point where eating any more sugar would have made them sick, they turned their attention to remembering songs of camps past, lead mostly by Loki and Carol. Carol seemed to have the more traditional camp songs. Loki's were mostly showtunes.

It left Clint out completely, but he wasn't about to complain, and no one seemed to notice.

Except Natasha, of course. She shifted closer to him, sitting so that they were touching. She didn't say anything, just sat there, leaning in when he put his arm around her. He didn't know what she was thinking, what she was remembering, but he hoped it was good things, and he hoped for no nightmares for either of them that night, because it was the last thing either of them needed.

He thought about asking her to go walk with him, but he didn't have a flashlight and where would they go? And what if she said no? Or what if she said yes but she would rather stay here with the others, and she only said it out of... obligation, or pity? So he stayed where he was and he tried not to mind the fact that even in a group of outsiders, he didn't quite fit.

Finally their chaperones decided it was time to nudge them towards bed. Natasha kissed him good night, quick and soft, when no one was looking. _I'll see you in the morning,_ she told him, but held on to his hand for a few moments longer, so that they were last into their cabins. It felt good, that she was the one holding on.

He took out his hearing aids almost immediately, shutting off the rest of the world. If anyone noticed or cared, they gave no indication. It took a while for him to fall asleep; after the life he'd led one would probably have expected it to be easy for him to fall asleep in strange places, but the truth was, it wasn't. Even when the trailer was in a different town every few days, it was always the same trailer. And he'd been at the Sullivans' for almost two years now, and when he wasn't there he was at Mr. Fury's, with the warmth and scent of Natasha beside him to reassure him that everything was okay.

When he slept, it was fitfully, and he was up almost before the sun. He got up and slipped out of the cabin, going to the fire pit and poking at the ashes. It had been thoroughly doused; there were no embers to stoke back into flame. He tried not to think that it was a metaphor.

He was startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. He looked, and there was Natasha, tousle-headed and still in her pajamas but wrapped in one of his hoodies that he'd either given her or she'd taken, he was never sure which but eventually they came back to him... only to have another disappear. The first rays of sun caught in her hair, and he smiled and stood and kissed her good morning like he always did (unless she did first) and she tucked herself into his arms and it felt good, and right, and today would be a better day, he thought.

It took a while for everyone else to wake up, and some of them had to be rolled out of bed semi-conscious. They were allowed to go to the mess hall in their pajamas if they chose, and thankfully no one had made any stupid rules about how kids shouldn't have coffee, so by the time the meal was over they were looking somewhat less like zombies. They were given time to go back to their cabins to change and get ready for the day, and finally Mike met them and took them out to one of the ropes courses. 

"Today we'll be doing things that are a little more – dangerous isn't the word, everything we do is very safe – but challenging. You're going to have to trust yourselves a little bit more, and trust each other as well. Some of these you may have done last year if you were here, others are actually new so you definitely won't have. But I think we'll have a lot of fun. Just don't fight against it. Remember that sometimes you have to give up a little bit of control, have to compromise, in order to accomplish something as a group."

Apparently he _had_ been paying attention, Clint thought, and he'd realize that they weren't all always very good at letting go of their own tight grip on things.

The morning didn't involve anything too scary, but that afternoon, he took them out to a sort of high ropes obstacle course. "You're going to go up in pairs," he said, "and you're going to need to work together to get through it. You'll need to support each other – sometimes literally – and really work as a team to get through it. So everyone pick a partner, and one of you stand here," he pointed to his left, "and one of you stand here, facing your partner."

They lined up as they'd been told. "Advisors as well," Mike said, gesturing to Mr. Coulson and Ms. Hill, so they joined the end of the line, facing each other. "Great," he said. "Now everyone rotate one place to the right."

They all froze, and then shuffled to their new positions, looking at their new partner. Clint faced Bobbi, who smiled and shrugged at him, unperturbed. But then, she'd been paired with Loki so what was there to be upset about? Now Loki was with Ms. Hill, and maybe it was better because he wouldn't be able to get away with going on any kind of power trip or sulking. Tony faced Mr. Coulson, Jess was with Bruce, and Carol and Natasha faced each other. 

"Who wants to go first?" Mike asked. "You'll go up in about 10 minute increments, so I apologize for those of you who have to wait, but we don't want everyone to get backed up if someone takes a little longer at one of the stations." 

"We will," Carol said, and Clint thought he saw Natasha grimace slightly, but she didn't say anything. Clint figured Carol probably thought of it as some kind of race. Tony then insisted that he went next, catching her competitive spirit.

Mr. Coulson balked. "No," he said. "No, I really don't think—"

"You'll be fine," Tony said. "Come on, you've got me to help you." 

The social worker didn't seem to find this reassuring, but he allowed himself to be hauled onto the course when Mike gave the signal.

Clint and Bobbi ended up last. He wasn't sure how; maybe he just wasn't paying attention or maybe Bobbi wanted it to be that way. It meant they spent almost an hour just sitting, waiting for the others to get started. Finally Mike motioned them forward, and they stepped onto the platform at the head of the course. 

"Ready?" Bobbi asked.

"Nope," Clint said, but he put his foot on the first rope anyway.

He quickly got frustrated, because there was a breeze and it was messing with his hearing aids, and the sounds of birds seemed unnaturally loud, and most of the time Bobbi wasn't looking at him (a lot of the time she couldn't be if she was going to see where she was going) and so even when she was talking to him, he could barely understand. 

They finally reached a platform where they could rest for a minute, and she looked at him, head cocked, and said, "It really is easier if we actually, y'know, communicate. I feel like I'm dragging you along against your will or to your death or something. I know that you would rather be with your girlfriend, but I swear, I don't bite, and this could be fun if you put a little effort into it."

"Sorry I'm ruining your fun," he said, half pissed off and half meaning it. "It's not really my fault that I can't hear a damn thing you're saying, but, y'know, I'll try harder."

"Wait, you..." She looked at him and smacked herself in the forehead. "I'm an idiot. I completely forgot, and I bet the helmet doesn't help any!" She shook her head. "Rewind," she said, "and I take all of that back. Well, except for the part where I don't bite, and that this could be fun. But what can I do to make it so that you can – so that _we_ can understand each other?"

It took a few minutes, but they figured out a set of hand signals and simple, easily understood phrases that they could use to communicate back and forth, and it turned out Bobbi was right, it _could_ be fun when he didn't feel like he was just dead weight, holding her back because he was too stubborn to admit that he couldn't understand.

They reached the end, and everyone was waiting for them there, looking varying degrees of ecstatic (Carol) and haggard (Mr. Coulson). Natasha just looked concerned, lines etched between her brows as she looked at him. 

_I'm okay,_ he reassured her, and she gave a quick nod.

"Great effort, everyone!" Mike said. "Really, that was awesome. How do you all feel?"

"Hungry," Tony said, speaking for all of them.

Mike grinned. "Snack time, then, and after that, a _real_ challenge."

It was all Clint could do not to smack him when he laughed at their collective groan.


	48. Chapter 48

"Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me! Happy birthday to me-ee!" Tony sang from the back of the bus at the top of his lungs. No one joined in, but Tony didn't seem perturbed. After all, it wasn't anyone else's birthday, right? "Happy birthday tooooo meeeee!" he finished with a flourish, and dropped back into his seat.

If Clint didn't know better, he would have thought Tony was drunk. Not that it wasn't completely outside of the realm of possibility, but he got the feeling that this time, at least, Tony was just high on life. After all, it was his birthday (a few days past) and the entire senior class and their guests were headed to an amusement park to celebrate.

Mr. Stark hadn't gotten them to open the park exclusively for Shield County High School, but he'd paid everyone's admission, and it was still early enough in the season that the place probably wouldn't be packed with people. It was his birthday and graduation gift to his son... whether or not he knew about it. Clint wouldn't have put it past Tony to arrange the whole thing himself, and just say that his dad had done it. But he didn't know for sure, and he wasn't about to ask.

Natasha sat beside him (of course, as always) and looked out the window, frowning slightly at the landscape as it sped past. She must have felt his gaze, because she turned and looked at him, flashing a crooked smile. She shrugged, as if to answer a question that he hadn't spoken. What that question was, neither of them was quite sure: Are you okay? What's wrong? Are you nervous? Any and all of the above?

Clint smiled back and shrugged too, reaching out to tuck a stray curl behind her ear. She turned her head slightly and pressed her cheek into his palm, her eyes closed. It only lasted a second; surrounded by people, she never let her guard down for long. Neither did he, but sometimes he felt like his was a little less obvious. But then, he hadn't been through what she'd been through, and he didn't actually have to keep an eye out for people who might be looking for him, ready to snatch him up or take him out.

 _That won't happen,_ he thought, willing her to hear the words even though he didn't speak them. _Not on my watch._

Unless it did. And then what? What would happen? What would he do?

One of her eyebrows went up and the corners of her mouth tipped down. He wanted to take her face in his hands, to kiss her and reassure her (and himself) that everything would be all right. But he couldn't be sure of that, could he? It could be a lie and he never wanted to lie to her. So he shrugged and she did too, and they both stared out the window now, their hands laced together and clenched a little too tight in the space between them on the seat where no one could see.

It wasn't really a long trip, but it felt like an eternity before they arrived. They piled off the busses and made their way to the gates, where they were all passed through en masse, herded to a different area where they were given wristbands that would get them free soda all day, and vouchers that would get them food, and then they were set loose on the park with the instructions to be back to the busses absolutely no later than 9:00 pm or they would be left behind.

(Except they wouldn't, and they all knew it, but 9:00 pm was when the park closed anyway, so they probably wouldn't have to wait _too_ long for stragglers.)

"Come on," Carol said, appearing out of nowhere with Jessica in tow. "This way."

Clint glanced at Natasha, who shrugged, and they allowed themselves to be dragged to the back of the park and into the queue for what was apparently one of the tallest rollercoasters in the country, with one of the steepest drops. "At one point it was _the_ tallest and steepest, but then of course another park had to do it just a little bit bigger and badder. I think. Or maybe it was there first, but anyway, it's amazing and you'll love it."

Jessica looked slightly green as she looked up at the not all that sturdy-looking steel track that towered above them, but there was something in the set of her jaw that said that she was going to do this, no matter what. Maybe she felt like she had something to prove, and maybe she did.

The line moved quickly - more quickly than Clint would have liked, if he was being honest. Natasha stood just in front of him, her arms crossed, drawn into herself and not listening as Carol chattered on about rollercoasters and the various merits and flaws of this type of coaster and that, and which designers were best and how she wanted to go to this park in Ohio because it had more rollercoasters in one place than anywhere else in the world.

"We could do a road trip," she said. "Maybe later in the summer." 

"Why don't we all survive this one first?" Jessica said, and Clint wasn't sure she meant it as a joke. 

"At least it's a permanent fixture," he said. "It's a lot better than the rides at traveling carnivals, which are meant to be taken apart and put back together all the time, and aren't always maintained like they should be. I would never go on a ride that takes you more than a few inches off the ground at a carnival." 

"Is that supposed to be reassuring?" Jessica asked. 

"Yes?"

She rolled her eyes. 

Finally they were loaded into one of the trains, thick padded bars pulled down and secured over their laps. Clint tried to push his down just a little bit tighter, thinking that maybe, considering they would be dropping almost straight toward the ground once they got to the top of the hill, that shouldn't there maybe be some kind of shoulder harness? Even in a car there was a strap that went across your chest.

But it was too late for second thoughts, because the train was starting to move, climbing up... and up... and up... It seemed to go on forever, and Clint couldn't help wondering whose idea this had been, and why it had seemed like a good one – not just today, but in general – and why anyone would ever design something that allowed you so much time to think about what a terrible decision you had just made.

Their ascent stopped, and for a second it was as if the whole world just paused... and then it dropped out from underneath them, and he threw his arms out to brace himself against the bar in the front of their little car, as if somehow he could hold off their inevitable demise at the bottom of the plummet. 

It couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but it felt like an eternity, and just when it was over they were yanked back up again, momentum driving them up another hill. He yelped as they went over two smaller hills in a row, fast enough that it actually lifted his butt out of the seat, and even if it was probably only a very small amount, it was too much.

When they got off, his legs were shaking. Natasha was pale-faced and grim. Jessica was grinning. She grabbed Carol's hand and yanked her into line again. 

Clint looked at Natasha, his head tipped in the direction their friends had gone, but she shook her head no, and started to walk away. She stopped when she realized that Clint wasn't following. "You want to go again?" she asked. 

"No," he said. "I kind of want to fall down on my knees and kiss the ground and promise I will never leave it ever, ever again."

"Don't," she laughed. "I will be jealous." She slid her arm around his waist and forced him to keep walking, lending him support until his legs stopped wobbling.

They wandered, not sure what to do next and nervous now (or at least Clint was) about going on any more rides, even though the odds were good that none of them would be quite as dramatic (or _traumatic_ as the one they'd just been on).

"You lost?" someone asked, coming up beside them, then, "Wow, you both look like death warmed over. And believe me, I know _exactly_ what that looks like." 

Bobbi. Clint couldn't help smiling. "Carol just tried to kill us," he explained, pointing back at the several hundred foot tall deathtrap that was visible pretty much anywhere you went in the park. 

She snorted. "So you actually _are_ death warmed over," she said. "Well, welcome to my zombie hoard." She had fallen into step beside them, but somehow Clint found himself following where she led, and Natasha didn't say anything about it.

"Had you never been on a rollercoaster before?" Bobbi asked. She knew – not in great detail, but she knew – that neither of them had anything remotely resembling normal childhoods. She looked at Natasha. "Do they have amusement parks in Russia?"

Natasha shook her head. "Not like this." 

"So you'd never been on anything like that before?"

"No," Natasha said.

"No," Clint echoed. "I've been on smaller ones before, but..."

"Well, that's pretty much baptism by fire right there, then," Bobbi said. 

"Literally," Natasha said dryly, because one of the features of the rollercoaster was jets of flame that came up unexpectedly, scorching the air even though they weren't anywhere near close enough to actually burn the riders, obviously.

Bobbi laughed. "It doesn't really get much worse than that. At least not at this park. Some people would say it doesn't get better than that, but... that's definitely not my favorite."

"What's your favorite?" Clint asked. 

"That." Bobbi pointed. "If I was the one taking you on your first rollercoaster, I would have brought you here."

They both looked up, realizing that when Bobbi had started guiding their path, she'd actually had a destination in mind. Natasha's eyes widened and Clint blinked, as if somehow by closing his eyes and reopening them, the twisting, looping track would straighten itself and become something that didn't look quite so... 

"It's safe," Bobbi said, as if she could read his mind, but then it was probably written all over his face. "They wouldn't let people ride it if it wasn't. No one's ever died on it, as far as I know, which can't be said for the one you've already been on, although the circumstances around that were a bit sketchy to begin with."

"Someone _died_ on it?" Natasha asked.

"He unfastened his seatbelt, I guess, and got thrown off, yeah." Bobbi shrugged. "Unfortunately, stuff like that happens sometimes. But thousands, possibly millions of people ride these rides every summer and survive, and even come back for more."

"If you love it so much, why aren't you getting in line?" Clint asked, not as a challenge but because he was genuinely curious. The look in Bobbi's eyes was wistful as she watched a train go flying past, up and around a loop, the riders screaming in delight (and possibly terror). Some of them had their hands thrown in the air like they were defying death, even as the thick shoulder harnesses held them firmly in place. 

Bobbi sighed. "I don't know if I can," she admitted. "My mom almost didn't let me come in the first place because she's so afraid that I'm going to, I don't know, dislocate my heart or something. She called my doctor and he said that my heart was strong, I was healthy, that riding some rides wasn't going to make my heart rate go any higher than it does when I'm training, so really, it was totally fine, but..." She shrugged.

"But?" Natasha prompted.

"But I'm not a cat and I don't have nine lives. I'm lucky to have gotten two. And you can know something here," she pointed to her temple, "and not really get it here." She pointed to her chest, then made a soft sound that might have been a snort and shook her head. "I know the biology of it. I've studied it more than is actually probably good for my sanity. I know that my doctor is right, and that I don't have anything to worry about. But there's still that little voice in the back of my head – it sounds a lot like my mother – that says, 'Don't do it, Bobbi. Don't take the chance.'"

Natasha looked at her, her eyes narrowed slightly, assessing her somehow. "There is more than one way to die," she said, and marched toward the entrance of the queue without looking back. 

Bobbi looked at Clint, who raised his eyebrows and shrugged one shoulder, then followed Natasha. Half a second later, Bobbi caught up to him, and they joined Natasha at the end of the line. 

"If I'm the first person to die on this rollercoaster," Bobbi said, "after telling you that no one has, I'm really going to feel like a jerk." But she was grinning as she said it, and Natasha smiled back.

"At least you will die doing something you love," she said. 

"True," Bobbi agreed. 

They spent the time they were waiting in line reading the signs for the various characters, which listed, among other things, height and weight. Clint wasn't exactly an expert on those kinds of the things, but Natasha and Bobbi reassured him of the physical improbability of the proportions of the women listed. "It's worse than Barbie!" Bobbi complained.

"Why it even is necessary?" Natasha asked. "Why this is important? Does it make difference, she is very tall and has big chest, and this is why she is villain?" She shook her head. "Maybe this is her superpower – can live without internal organs."

Bobbi laughed. "Maybe it is."

Finally they got to the front of the line, and since the rows were four across they were able to all sit next to each other. They were strapped in and the attendant checked to make sure everything was secure, and then they were off, their feet dangling beneath them as the train was ratcheted up the initial hill. There was a quick drop that sent Clint's stomach up into his throat, but then the trained turned, arresting the downward movement... but only for a second, and then down they went, and when they came back up it was heels over head and the sound he made wasn't manly or dignified, but before he could even really process that he was upside down, he wasn't anymore... until he was again, and again, until the train pulled back into the station and they climbed off.

Bobbi was grinning so wide it looked like it might hurt. "Well?" she asked as they made their way down the steps to the ground. "What did you think? Better than the last one?"

"What else do you like?" Natasha asked by way of response. 

So Bobbi became their tour guide for the day, taking them to all of the rides that she liked best, which was mostly every rollercoaster that wasn't the first one they'd gone on. "I don't know if they've fixed the wooden one, so I think we're better off skipping it," she said. "It was pretty rough last time I was on it, so unless you enjoy whiplash..."

They decided they didn't.

After a few rides on rollercoasters that had them upside down almost as much as they were right side up, Clint started to feel like his brain had gotten twisted around, and the world seemed to sway around him. He tried to tough it out, hoping it would pass, but it didn't.

Natasha caught him before he could fall, and got him over to a bench, sitting beside him.

"What is it?" Bobbi asked. "The heat?"

Clint shook his head. "I'm just... dizzy, a little."

Bobbi frowned slightly. "I guess maybe that makes sense," she said. "The inner ear regulates balance, and if yours is damaged, you might be more susceptible to things that mess with your center of gravity and stuff. Just relax." She went and got a bottle of water. She poured some onto a pile of napkins and handed it to Natasha, who placed it on the back of Clint's neck. The rest of the bottle was given to him to drink. 

"How are you feeling?" she asked a little while later – it might have been five minutes or it might have been fifteen, Clint wasn't sure. He felt bad and was tempted to just tell them to go off and have fun and he would meet them later, and he was pretty sure that would have been the right thing to do, but selfishly, he wanted Natasha with him. 

"A little better," he said. "My head isn't spinning so much."

"We could get something to eat," Bobbi said. "Could be blood sugar, too, is contributing. Did you eat breakfast?"

"Kind of?" Breakfast had been mostly coffee.

"Kind of. Great answer. Do you think you can walk or should I go get something for all of us?"

"I can walk," Clint said, even though he wasn't actually sure that was true. He was grateful when Natasha stayed nearby, just in case he started to topple, but he didn't. The world was still a bit wavy around the edges, but he could manage to put one foot in front of the other.

They got food and found a place out of the sun to sit and eat it, and by the time they were done, he was actually feeling pretty much back to normal.

"We should probably avoid anything else that goes upside down for a little while," Bobbi said. "But there's still things we can go on, if you're up for it."

"I think I am," Clint said.

He was a little dubious when their next stop involved cars that spun on their axis as they went around the track, but he didn't argue. And any dizziness it might have caused was completely worth it for the yelp that Natasha let out as her side of the car went down one drop backward before it spun, and the look on her face as she clapped her hand over her mouth immediately afterward, as if she could somehow hide the fact that she wasn't always so perfectly tough-as-nails as she wanted people to think. 

"This did not happen," she warned them both as they got off. "Understand?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," Bobbi said. "Fried dough?"

By the time they got back to the busses, they were all slightly sunburnt, exhausted, hyped up on sugar but ready to drop. Clint looked forward to closing his eyes, and hoped that the world wouldn't whirl around him too much when he did. Bobbi sat across the aisle from them, flashing a smile as people settled in around them. "And we all lived to tell the tale," she said.

"No thanks to Carol," Natasha replied, knowing that Carol and Jess were right behind them.

"What did I do?" Carol asked.

"Tried to kill us."

She laughed. "I'm pretty sure it would take a lot more than one rollercoaster to kill you," she told Natasha. "Anyway, now you've got bragging rights. You can say you did it."

"And never, ever do it again," Natasha told her.

"Never say never," Carol said. "There's always next year."

To which Natasha responded with a rude gesture in pretty much any language, and flopped back into her seat.


	49. Chapter 49

Bruce dropped down on the grass unceremoniously, and Tony followed suit, although with a little more care for not ending up with grass stains on his jeans. The weather was warm enough to be allowed outside for lunch according to the school (not that Clint and Natasha generally paid much to what their keepers thought about such things – they'd been going outside to escape the clamor of the cafeteria every day since the weather got warm enough that they could be outside without gloves on, as long as it wasn't pouring) so Clint, Natasha, Carol and Jessica had set up a kind of picnic, pooling together what they'd brought from home. 

"So what are you guys doing this weekend?" Bruce asked. "Any plans?"

"Working in the garden," Jessica said, "and doing homework. Nothing else that I can think of." She looked briefly at Natasha, who shook her head, Clint assumed to indicate that she wasn't aware of anything Mr. Fury had planned for them. Carol shrugged at Jessica's glance; she hadn't planned anything either.

"Probably just hanging out with these guys," Clint said, which really meant Natasha except Carol and Jess were around most of the time, too, so it ended up being the four of them a lot. "And I am using 'guys' here as a gender-neutral term," he added, drawing a laugh from Carol.

"No one said you weren't," she replied. She looked at Bruce, "I don't have anything. Why?"

"Because Bobbi has her testing for her second degree black belt on Saturday morning and I thought... maybe we could go. It's not, uh, not open to the public, exactly, but it's open to family and friends, and when she was telling me about it... I just thought it might be nice." He shrugged, and Clint got the distinct feeling that he wasn't actually telling the whole story.

"Did she actually invite you?" Tony asked, surprising Clint a little because he'd assumed that Tony was already in on this, that Bruce would have told him first to get him on board, so that if him asking on his own didn't get them on board, Tony could somehow persuade them like he usually did.

"No," Bruce admitted. "But... we were just talking and she mentioned it, and I kind of got the feeling..." He frowned, picking at the crust of his sandwich. "I got the feeling that maybe she wanted to ask, but didn't feel comfortable? Like, not that she was embarrassed, just maybe she didn't want to be shot down or rejected."

Which didn't sound much like the Bobbi that Clint knew. Not that he knew her well, but he and Natasha had spent most of the day with her at the amusement park, and before that they'd been partnered on the ropes course, so he'd gotten a chance to get to know her at least a little bit, and she always seemed really confident and sure of herself. 

"Are you sure she'd want us just showing up, though?" Carol asked. "I mean, if it's meant for family and friends..." Her voice trailed off, and it didn't take a genius to pick up on the implication that she wasn't sure that they actually qualified as friends. 

"Why would she have mentioned it if she didn't?" Bruce asked. "We weren't even really talking about it, exactly. Like I didn't ask her what she was doing this weekend or anything. I just... I kind of got the feeling that maybe her family wasn't completely supportive? When I first met her, her mother was at the hospital all the time, and she would sneak out of her room to see me when she went home to take a nap or a shower and get a change of clothes, that kind of thing. But the way she talked about her... I always got the feeling that they were kind of... at odds with each other. Not fighting just... on opposite sides of some kind of line that had been drawn, and they didn't necessarily _want_ to be on opposite sides but..."

He was floundering, and it made Clint squirm. "What time is it?" Clint asked. 

"Saturday morning," Bruce said. "I'm not sure exactly what time, but I can probably find out. If people want to go." 

"I'll go," Clint said. Because he'd kind of gotten the same feeling from Bobbi, that her relationship with her mother was... contentious, maybe, and how was that for an SAT word? (Too bad it hadn't come up... might have gotten him an extra point or two...), and that the main point of contention was who was in charge of Bobbi's life.

And the other thing he'd noticed was that, although she didn't appear to have any problems striking up a conversation with pretty much anyone, it didn't seem as if she had any actual _friends_ here. Maybe she had at her old school and maybe they were still in touch, so maybe it didn't bother her, but...

But if she was bringing up something this important (and Clint was pretty sure that this was a big deal) to someone she'd only known for a few months out of nowhere, he got the feeling that maybe that wasn't the case, so... "Find out what time and I'll go with you." And then he remembered something else that Bobbi had mentioned in passing the weekend before. "It doesn't seem right, leaving someone hanging like that on their birthday."

"It's her birthday?" Jessica asked.

"On Saturday."

"We'll all go," Carol said decisively. "I just hope it's not _too_ early."

*

Which was how they all found themselves walking into a strange building at quarter to nine on a Saturday morning, feeling like fish out of water as they looked around, trying to figure out what they were supposed to do. Luckily there were other people there to watch who were able to point them in the direction of some seats... but they were already mostly full of parents and siblings, so they just sat on the floor, trying to stay out of the way so they didn't get stepped on.

"I don't see her mother," Bruce whispered. 

"Maybe she's just running late," Carol whispered back, trying to give her the benefit of the doubt. 

"How did Bobbi get here, then?"

"Maybe she drove herself," Jess said. "She could have her license, maybe." 

Probably not, though, Clint realized. With everything she'd been through medically in the last year, when would she have had the time to learn since she turned sixteen? So someone would have had to have driven her here and dropped her off.

"Maybe she's in the bathroom," Jessica said doubtfully.

"Maybe she just sucks," Tony supplied, less than helpfully, but they were all thinking it. "Her mom, I mean. Not Bobbi."

As the testing started, it was pretty clear that Bobbi did _not_ suck. Not that Clint knew what he was watching, exactly, but watching her versus some of the others in the room, all of whom wore black belts – some plain black and others with their names on them and varying numbers of yellow stripes, he could tell that she was probably one of the best. 

And it was beautiful to watch. Brutal, but beautiful, like Natasha could be, and he glanced over at her and saw that she was watching intently, the look in her eyes almost hungry. He slid his hand into hers and she squeezed it, hard, just for a second. 

They did forms, first just with their bodies and then with short sticks, weaving them through the air like swords, and practiced defense against various attacks, with hands and knives and guns and sticks, and Clint wouldn't want to meet any of them, not even the youngest and smallest, in a dark alley. 

And then it was over, and they were filing off the floor, and he saw Bobbi glance over and stop dead in her tracks before starting up again. "What...?" She shook her head. "What are you all doing here?" 

Bruce shrugged. "We just... wanted to come out and support you," he said. "I mean, it's not every day that you do something like this, right?"

"Especially not on your birthday," Clint added.

Bobbi looked back and forth between them, blinking, then her face slowly slid into a grin. "Well, it kind of is," she said. "Not testing, and not on my birthday, but it's more or less every day that I'm here." She looked at all of them, shaking her head slightly. "Thank you," she said. "Thank you so much for coming."

Carol was the first to step forward and offer a hug. "Congratulations," she said. "That was pretty amazing!"

"Thanks," Bobbi replied. "I messed up a few times, but hopefully it didn't show."

"Not to us," Tony said. "When do you get your belt with your name on it?" 

"A few weeks," Bobbi said. "Probably. It depends. But it's with second dan, so I'll get it soon."

She hugged all of them in turn, accepting their congratulations. "I should go change," she said. 

"You should," Bruce agreed. "Unless you want to go out in your, uh—"

"Dobok," Bobbi supplied. "But you can just call it a uniform. And no, I don't, because I won't wear my belt outside of the school and without it I just look like I'm wandering around in big white pajamas. But... where are we going?"

"We're taking you out to lunch," Bruce said, which was the first that Clint had heard about that part of the plan. "Or brunch, I guess. Anyway, out, to celebrate."

"I'll be right back," Bobbi said.

It took her a few minutes to make her way across the room, though, because she kept getting stopped by people wanting to congratulate her. They couldn't really begrudge her that; it was her day, after all, and she'd earned it. So they just tried to keep themselves from becoming an obstacle to those moving purposefully around them, obviously having jobs to do and doing them.

While Bobbi was in the changing room, a boy approached them. He wasn't in uniform, and Clint didn't remember seeing him out on the floor testing. He didn't remember seeing him at all, but he looked somehow familiar. 

"Hey," he said. "Uh... I'm Ben?" It came out a question, like he wasn't sure who he was, or maybe he thought that it would mean something to them. It didn't, at least not to Clint.

"Hi, Ben," Carol said, with a look on her face that was somewhere between friendly and, 'Do we know you?'

"I just, uh, wanted to say thank you for coming. To see my sister. That was really nice of you."

Sister. Bobbi had a brother. Had Bobbi ever mentioned that she had a brother? Clint didn't think so, but then maybe he'd just missed it, or forgotten about it. Either was possible, and maybe even likely. 

"What are friends for?" Bruce asked. "We're going out to lunch after. Taking her out, since it's her birthday and all. Do you want to come?"

Ben shook his head, a little too quickly, Clint thought. "No. Thank you, but no. I have to get home. I have a soccer game in a little bit and I don't want to be late. I just... I didn't want to miss this. It's a big deal to her."

"Is your mom here?" Carol asked.

"No. She didn't come. She's not very..." He shrugged. "Anyway, I should go. Tell Bobbi – if she asks, tell Bobbi I'll see her later, okay?"

"Do you need a ride or something?" Bruce asked. 

Ben shook his head. "No. It's not far. That's why she can do it; it's close enough to walk. Mom wouldn't drive her. Especially not after..." He shrugged again. "She thinks..." But he didn't finish the thought. "Anyway, it was nice meeting you."

And then he was gone, and Clint wondered if they could really even call what had just happened 'meeting'. But Bobbi came out a minute later, dressed in regular clothes, and rejoined them. "Thanks for waiting," she said. "I'm ready when you are."

They piled back into two cars and headed for a nearby diner, figuring that was their best bet for a place that would have something that everyone liked, and that wouldn't cost more than most of them could afford. Not that Tony wouldn't have picked up the tab; he always had one of his father's credit cards on him and it seemed like he could basically do what he wanted with it, and the bill would just get paid. 

A few tables had to be slid together to make a place large enough for them, and for a few minutes at least they were quiet as they looked over the menu, deciding what they wanted. Most of them ended up ordering breakfast, because really, what was the point of a diner if it wasn't to be able to eat pancakes at any time of day?

Once they'd placed their orders, a somewhat awkward silence fell. Bobbi was the one to fill it, thanking them again for coming. "I honestly didn't think anyone would," she said. "No one usually does."

"Your brother came," Tony pointed out.

"I saw." Bobbi smiled, but it was sort of lopsided and almost tired-looking. "He does when he can. He probably had to tell Mom he was going for a run or something. She's really... She's not controlling, exactly, except when she is. If that makes sense. It's like... she's not trying to run our lives, exactly, but she has a pretty set idea of what's best for us, and when our idea doesn't agree with that, it can be... problematic. He's better at toeing the line than I am. Like she was some big soccer star when she was younger, so she got both of us into it, but I never really cared about it. And she was always going on about how I had so much potential and how if I just put a little effort into it, if I just _tried_ I could be so good, and maybe she was right, but..." Bobbi shrugged, and Clint could see the similarities between her and her brother clearly then. "Why waste your life doing something you don't love?"

There were murmurs of assent, but no one really knew what to say. It wasn't really a problem, though, because Bobbi wasn't actually done talking. "And then I almost died – or really, I _did_ die – during a soccer game. My heart just gave out. Previously undiagnosed heart condition. Most people who have things like that happen, they don't make it. They just become a headline. But I made it, probably because there were paramedics on scene because it was a big tournament and they had them there just in case. But the damage to my heart was irreparable, so I had to go on the list for a transplant, and while I was waiting I was stuck in the hospital, hooked up to all kinds of monitors to make sure I didn't drop dead.

"I got lucky, though," Bobbi continued, stretching. "I didn't have to wait long. I was moved up pretty quickly on the list, I guess, because there was a good chance my heart would give out again sooner rather than later, and I'm young and otherwise healthy so they look at it like I've got a long, productive life ahead of me, and that makes me a higher priority or something. But anyway, I got a new heart and I recovered and once I was well enough I told my mom under no uncertain terms was I ever going to go back to playing soccer, but I _was_ going back to Tae Kwon Do and there was nothing that was going to stop me. She tried, but I wouldn't let her."

"How did you start in the first place?" Carol asked, at the same time that Bruce asked, "How do you afford it?"

"My father pays for it. Indirectly," Bobbi said. "He pays child support, and that's the money that gets used. He actually pays more than he has to, legally, and part of it is for stuff like food, clothing, shelter, all of that. The extra is for stuff like this. Sort of like he's giving us an allowance. And once we got old enough we got to decide how that money was spent. When we were younger it basically just got put into our college funds. Now we get to decide whether we just want that money for ourselves, or to save it, or to use it for extracurricular stuff. So mine goes for Tae Kwon Do, because my mother refuses to pay for it." 

She looked at Carol. "I actually got started at a friend's birthday party," she said. "She was already a student at the dojang, and one of the things they do is let people have birthday parties there, and they can invite their friends and there's some training and a lot of games and stuff. And I was hooked, and I went home and begged my mom to be allowed to sign up and take classes. She said no, no way, we couldn't afford it. I didn't know then about the money from my dad. But I talked to him a few days later – he's not a bad person, my dad, he's just not a great father. Or maybe I should say he's a better father over the phone from across the country. Anyway, I told him about it and how mom wouldn't let me but she kept making me play soccer, and how it wasn't fair, and he must have talked to her because she signed me up. I think she thought, or hoped, that I would give up after a couple of months, but I didn't. Obviously."

"How long you have been... training?" Natasha asked. 

"About six years," Bobbi said. "It took about three years to get from white to black belt, and then normally from first dan to second dan it takes two years, but because I was basically unable to train for the better part of a year, it took me almost three." She wrinkled her nose. "It really sucked going to testing and watching the people who I've been training with since white belt moving up when I wasn't. Although a lot of them quit after black belt. I don't know the numbers exactly, but a lot of people never make it past yellow belt, maybe green, and then even fewer make it to black, and _a lot_ quit then and never make it to second dan. But I'm in it for the long haul. I plan to be a master someday, and an instructor. I thought about having my own school but with the other things I want to do I don't know if I'll have the time. But it would be cool to teach."

Natasha nodded, and Clint thought she might have been about to say something else but their food arrived and the moment was lost. They were all quiet as they ate, and conversation only picked up again as their food disappeared, but it wasn't all focused on Bobbi anymore; people started to have side conversations and Clint let it settle into background noise.

He only tuned back in when Bobbi addressed Natasha again. "You could come to class with me sometime," she said. 

Natasha shrugged. "But I only would be beginner," she said. "It would take so long to learn enough."

"Enough to...?" Bobbi frowned, and then nodded slightly like she understood. "We do workshops sometimes, too, and shorter courses – six weeks, eight weeks sometimes, like once a week – of self-defense, to learn the basics of what you need to know if anyone were to actually attack you. So it wouldn't be all of the forms and stuff that maybe you don't need. I'll let you know the next time one comes up." 

Natasha nodded. "Yes. Thank you."

"You could still join me for class sometime, though," Bobbi said. "Both of you. You never know. You might like it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is dedicated to [tryslora](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tryslora/pseuds/tryslora), who tested for her first dan black belt in TKD this weekend. Congratulations!
> 
> (And maybe a little bit to me - I got mine back at the end of March. ;-))


	50. Chapter 50

"Shouldn't we be doing something _fun_?" Jessica asked. She flipped a page in the textbook that was spread out on the picnic table in front of her, then another, not even looking at them. "School's over."

"There's still finals," Carol pointed out. "You still have to get through that."

"You don't," Jessica said. "Or at least you don't have to worry about them. Your grades are good, which you manage without even trying, and anyway, you've already gotten into college. No one is looking at your grades at this point."

"Community college," Carol replied. "That doesn't mean anything."

Even Clint could hear the bitterness in her tone, and he hoped that Jessica would let it drop. He agreed with her, though. They should be doing something fun. They'd only had a half day, and he was sure that everyone else from the school was blowing off steam somewhere, not hitting the books. 

"Wasn't the whole point of building this picnic table so that we could have a place to sit outside and have barbecues and stuff?" he chimed in. "Come on, Carol. It's worth celebrating. We survived another year."

"I survived my _first_ year of regular school," Jessica pointed out. "That deserves some cooking with fire."

" _You_ are going nowhere near the grill," Clint told her. "I heard what happened last time!"

Jessica made a face, and Natasha just raised her eyebrows and shrugged at her, as if to say, 'Don't look at me.' Even though it _had_ been Natasha who'd told him about Jessica deciding to get experimental with what could conceivably be cooked on the grill, resulting in dinner going up in flames. He wished he'd been there to see it, but it had happened in the middle of the week and as the school year wound down and finals approached, the Sullivans had gotten stricter about him being home on school nights at a reasonable time. Never mind the fact that he studied with Natasha – and they really _did_ study – and he was pretty sure that her help, along with the weekly study sessions with Jessica and Carol, was what had gotten him through his year with grades that were more than just halfway decent. Mostly B's, one A, and one C that he hoped to bring up with his final exam.

"Who we are inviting?" Natasha asked. "Who _are we_ inviting ?" she corrected, which she didn't usually when it was just their friends around, but maybe she thought it was good practice for exams. Not that there was a verbal portion of their English test – why would there be? – and she'd managed to get out of doing English for Dummies for a second year. 

"Everyone," Jessica said. "Or, y'know, everyone we know." 

Which amounted to a dozen people, tops, including the four of them. Tony and Bruce, Steve, Peggy if he wanted to invite her along, Bobbi, Loki, Thor, Pepper. They could get into other people from the drama club, maybe, if they really wanted to, but considering it was kind of a last minute thing, and they hadn't _actually_ gotten Mr. Fury's approval, probably not a good idea.

"When?" Natasha asked.

"Now," Jessica told her. "Today. Why not?"

"You are calling Mr. Fury," Natasha said. "Is your idea."

Jessica rolled her eyes. "Chicken," she said, but took her phone out of her pocket and dialed, walking a few steps away to have the conversation. Clint couldn't hear what was being said, but it didn't look like it was turning into an argument, so that was probably a good sign. When she came back, she said, "He says it's all right. Not too many people, and we're paying for the food ourselves."

Clint winced. He hadn't thought about that part of things, and he wasn't sure that any of the other three _had_ money. He did, because he was doing yard work and mowing for a lot of the neighbors that he'd shoveled for over the winter, and against his better judgment he'd applied (and been accepted) to work at the summer camp again. He thought he might have been able to make more money getting on the crew of a real landscaper or something, but the few he'd called had wanted people with more experience or something. 

"That's no problem," Carol said. "I've got some money on me."

Natasha nodded. Jessica reached into her pocket and pulled out a few crumpled bills. "I don't have much," she admitted. "Most of it went into the garden."

The garden, which still hadn't produced much in the way of things that could actually be eaten, and Clint was starting to wonder if it ever would. Jess seemed unconcerned. But it would have been nice if maybe it had had a few tomatoes growing that they could have picked so there would be once less thing that they had to buy. 

"We'll go get the food," Carol said. "You two get the word out."

"What time?" Natasha asked. 

"Around dinner time, I figure," Carol said. "Gives us time to get stuff ready. People can bring something along if they want. We can do sort of a pot luck kind of thing. Maybe tell them four o'clock?"

"All right," Natasha agreed. Once Jessica and Carol had headed to Carol's car to go to the store (arguing about whether Carol would actually get in trouble if she let Jess drive, which Carol said she would and Jess wanted to know how much trouble she could possibly get in) Natasha looked at Clint and sighed. _How did we get stuck with inviting people?_ , she asked. 

_We could just send a text to everyone,_ Clint suggested. _Rather than calling._

_They might not notice a text,_ Natasha said, looking dubious.

_They might not notice a call, either,_ Clint replied. 

_True. We'll just ask them to respond to let us know they got it and to let us know whether they're coming, so we have an idea how much food to make._

So Clint sent out a text to everyone, which he preferred over actually trying to talk on the phone, which was often a losing proposition for him. He quickly got replies from most people. From Steve he got a message asking if it was okay to bring Peggy.

'Of course,' Clint texted back. 'I figured you would.'

'She's watching her niece, though,' Steve said. 'She's five. Is that okay?'

"'Tasha," Clint said, out loud to get her attention. _Steve wants to know if it's okay for Peggy to bring her niece. She's five._

_She'll probably be bored,_ Natasha said. _We don't really have anything for her to do here._

'There's nothing for her to do here,' Clint replied. 'She might be bored.'

'We'll bring some games or something,' Steve sent back. 'Otherwise Peggy can't come, and I don't want to leave her alone when I said that I'd help her out. Not that she can't handle it on her own, but a promise is a promise.'

Clint's snort drew Natasha to him to read over his shoulder. 'Boy scout. Bring her. We'll figure it out.'

Natasha texted Jessica to let her know how many people they were expecting, and also that they shouldn't bother buying any chips or soda because everyone who had said they would bring something was bringing one or the other. 

It surprised him (although maybe it shouldn't have) how well Jessica adapted to cooking for a big group of people. It didn't seem to bother her, having to make things in vats instead of just enough for three (or four or five) people. He got stuck with potato peeling duty because he was the one who suggested potato salad, and they hadn't gotten the right kind of potatoes to be able to leave the skins on (which Clint thought was gross anyway). 

People started to arrive around 3:30, even though they'd said 4:00. Bobbi was the first to arrive, looking vaguely apologetic. "I thought it would take longer to get here than it did," she explained. "I always get paranoid about being late."

"Who drove you?" Clint asked. 

"My mom," she said. "She wasn't thrilled about it, but I told her that one of the things that the social worker at the hospital had really harped on was re-establishing ties to my peers after being out of school for so long, and finally she gave in. Is there anything I can do to help?"

"Check with Jess," he said. "She's kind of in charge of cooking." He and Carol would be manning the grill, though, because he really didn't trust Jessica with open flames. 

Surprisingly, the last people to arrive were Steve and Peggy. At first Clint thought maybe they hadn't brought Peggy's niece after all, but then she peered out from around Peggy's legs when prompted to say hello.

"Hi," the little girl said obediently. 

"Hi," Clint said back. "Come on in."

"She's not normally this shy," Peggy said. "It's just... been a long day, I think. She'll warm up."

"It's all right," Clint said. "Come on back." He led them to the back yard, where everyone else was already gathered. Jessica and Natasha were putting out food, and he headed over to the grill to get it started. 

Even though it was still a little early for dinner, he started grilling as soon as it got hot, figuring that probably everyone was already hungry, unless they'd eaten a big lunch or something... but even then, they were teenagers, so it was pretty likely they would still be hungry anyway.

He took a break from grilling when Natasha insisted, telling him that most people had already had seconds and he still hadn't eaten anything. So he fixed himself a burger and a hot dog and sat down beside her in the shade, just watching their friends as he ate.

Of all people, it looked like Peggy's niece (her name was Sharon) had latched on to Thor. Or maybe Thor had latched on to her; he hadn't seen the interaction that had led to the seemingly unlikely friendship, so he couldn't be sure. 

But then maybe it wasn't that unlikely when he thought about it. Sure, Thor was a big guy, but he was also a _nice_ guy, and it really shouldn't surprise Clint that he liked kids. He picked the little girl up and swung her around until they were both dizzy, chased her around the yard in a seemingly endless game of tag, threw a Frisbee with her, and even sat and let her play with his long hair, aided and abetted by Jessica, who supplied the ponytail holders for Sharon to secure the braids that she put in.

"I've always wanted kids," Thor told them later, when it was starting to get dark. Sharon was mostly asleep in his arms, having crashed from a sugar high after they'd made s'mores over the grill. 

"Not me," Loki said, eying the little girl suspiciously even now. At one point Sharon had come after him (Clint assumed at Thor's suggestion) and he'd had to dodge her for a solid twenty minutes before she finally lost interest. "I'll just spoil yours and then give them back." He smirked in his brother's direction, and Thor grinned back. 

No one said much for a minute, and Clint wondered how many of them were thinking about all of the reasons that they should never have children. He knew that he was, and from the way that Natasha's shoulder dug into his, she was too. It was as if they all came from such messed up backgrounds that they were all sure that if they had kids they would screw them up too. Which wasn't necessarily the case – it wasn't as if he planned to turn into a raging alcoholic and raise his kids in the circus – but why take the chance?

Finally the party started to break up, even though the next day was Saturday and none of them had to get up and be anywhere as far as Clint knew. With the setting sun, they all seemed to have dropped into their own little worlds, and some of them were happy and a lot of were probably slightly melancholy. 

"Do you want me to carry her to the car?" Thor asked as Peggy and Steve got up. 

"That's all right," Peggy said. "I'll take her."

So the little girl was transferred from one pair of arms to the other, and they said their goodbyes before heading out. Thor and Loki followed next, then Tony and Bruce, and last of all Bobbi's mother arrived to pick her up (Clint realized he, or someone, should have offered her a ride home, but he hadn't thought about it until it was too late) and then it was just the four of them – the two that lived here and the two that practically did – and they started in on the cleanup. 

It didn't take long to get the leftovers put away and the garbage into the big bin that would have to be dragged out to the curb on Sunday night, which Clint usually did when he was leaving to go back to the Sullivans'. He called Mrs. Sullivan and let her know that he was staying the night here; he wasn't really asking permission but she gave it anyway.

"We should do that again sometime," Carol said. "It was fun."

"Definitely," Jessica agreed. Clint wondered if she felt that way because she actually liked all of the company or if she just liked getting a chance to cook for a bunch of people... or maybe it was just because Carol had said it. 

"We will do again for Fourth of July," Natasha said. "Unless there is other plan?" Tony and Bruce weren't going to MIT again for the summer, so they wouldn't be in Boston to visit. 

"I'd been thinking of going to Boston," Carol said, "like I have every year, but... I could be persuaded." She gave Jessica a sidelong look that the other girl didn't catch.

"It's also Steve's birthday," Clint pointed out. "The Fourth. So we could celebrate that." He still wasn't sure if Carol remembered anything about the previous Fourth of July, and the fact that she had actually met most of them then. She'd never said anything about it, but then maybe she was too embarrassed to. They hadn't said anything either, so maybe there was just a silent agreement that they were all just going to pretend that the incident had never happened.

"Would be hard to get everyone to Boston, I think," Natasha said. "Would be easier to have here."

"Are there fireworks around here we can go to?" Carol asked. "It's not really Independence Day without fireworks."

"We can look," Natasha said. "There must be somewhere."

"Did you even celebrate, where you were?" Carol asked Jessica then. "The Fourth of July?"

Jessica shrugged. "No. We didn't celebrate much of anything. Not like you're thinking of, anyway. We did Thanksgiving, sort of, but not because of Christopher Columbus or pilgrims or whatever, but just because he wanted us all to say how thankful we were to be where we were, how thankful we were for him. Christmas was actually about Jesus, so was Easter. There wasn't trees or eggs or bunnies or Santa or any of that. We didn't celebrate birthdays really, either, unless it was a big one, like they decided you were old enough to marry. Even then, it was more about the quote-unquote engagement than about your actual birthday." She shrugged again, and wrapped her arms around herself, holding on tight.

Carol came up behind her and wrapped her arms over Jessica's. "We should give you a real birthday party," she said. "Next year."

"I don't care about that," Jessica said. "It's not a big deal."

"It should be," Carol replied, letting her go because for once when she touched her Jess hadn't relaxed. "But we've got a while before then. Right now we should probably just worry about... well, right now we shouldn't worry about anything. Movie?"

Jess shrugged again, then nodded and followed her into the living room. Clint looked at Natasha, who shook her head slightly, so they begged off and went upstairs.

Natasha sat on the edge of her bed, then pushed herself back, settling against the pillows propped against the headboard. She looked at Clint expectantly, so he crawled up beside her, and once he'd settled there she let her head drop against his shoulder. If she had anything she wanted to say, she didn't say it, and neither did he, until the silence turned into something else, and they didn't need words to communicate meaning.

Later, her hand rested on his chest, over his heart, and he laid his own hand over it and. She looked up at him, her blue eyes silvery in the moonlight that slid through the crack between the curtains. She smiled, and he kissed her forehead, then her nose, and he felt her laugh even though he couldn't hear it. 

His heart ached, and his throat with it, and he didn't say anything because he thought words might ruin it. She looked at him for a moment more, then her head came down on his shoulder again and he wrapped his arm around her and felt her settle there.

He didn't sleep, though. He didn't want to lose a minute of this feeling, because there was always the chance that it wouldn't last.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you may have noticed that this is Chapter 50 of Time For A Sign. It's actually Chapter 110 overall, not counting the deleted scenes. As a sort of celebration of what, to me, feels like a pretty big milestone, I decided to do something a little bit fun (I hope). 
> 
> I'm giving you, my dedicated readers (and if you're still reading at this point, you're definitely dedicated!) the opportunity to ask any of the characters in the story anything you want. Yes, anything. And they will answer. Or I'll try to make them answer. I can't promise they'll tell the truth, though. *g*
> 
> Interested? [Leave a comment here!](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1788625)


	51. Chapter 51

"Crazy to think that'll be us next year, huh?" Bobbi asked.

"Crazy, yeah," Clint agreed. And she wasn't wrong. A year from now, instead of sitting in uncomfortable chairs, waiting for their friends to process across the stage to receive their diplomas, the slip of paper that proved that they'd survived four years of high school hell, and the... however many years of school before that, they would be lined up somewhere, waiting to process out and take their own uncomfortable seats until their name was called.

Except the journey there wouldn't have been anything considered normal for any of them. Not that it had been for Bruce, either, with his time in juvie, or Tony with his skipped grades and probably already a year's worth of college credits, or nearly, or Carol switching schools for her senior year.

But as he looked at the three young women who were his companions, he knew that none of those stories really compared. Not that it mattered, because they were all going to end up in the same place. Sort of. Probably.

He'd managed to end the year with a pretty solid B average. He'd had one C, and it was actually a C+ and was it really his fault that he couldn't keep all of the names and dates of the entirety of American history straight? (It was a little bit his fault that he'd never bothered with any of the extra credit, but he'd had the feeling from the beginning of the year that his teacher didn't like him, so he'd kind of assumed that the man would find a way to not give him the extra credit even if he did it.)

Anyway, the Sullivans had been happy with his grades, thought it proved that you could really do anything if you put some effort into it, and that it showed that he'd really changed from the kid they'd brought home two years (was it really two years? Shit...) ago, who'd never been in a classroom in his life, and who was pissed off at anything and didn't think that education mattered.

If Clint was being honest, he still wasn't sure that it did. Not in the long run. Not for people like him, anyway, with no direction and no real ambition. He didn't have a plan like everyone else seemed to. He just tried to make it through every day, and on the good ones, he might think about next week or next month, but next year or five, ten years from now? He had no clue.

"Did you guys come last year?" Bobbi asked. "When Steve and Thor graduated?"

"Sort of," Clint said. 

"Sort of?"

"It's kind of a long story."

Bobbi glanced at her phone. "We've got time."

It really wasn't all that long a story. He'd just said that because he didn't actually feel like getting into it. But Bobbi was looking at him expectantly, and finally he gave in. "Last year, Steve's mom was in... what's it called again?" he asked Natasha. "Where you go when you still need people to look after you but you're not going to get any better so there's no point in being in the hospital? They're just trying to make you comfortable until you die?"

Natasha's eyebrows knit together as she searched for the word. "Hospice," she declared after a moment.

"Right. Hospice. Basically, she was supposed to have died months before, but she'd promised him that she would be at his high school graduation, and she'd managed to hang on. But she couldn't actually leave the room, or her bed even. So Tony rigged it up so that she could watch the graduation on a webcam, and when Steve did his speech we projected her up on a screen he could see so that he could see that she was there. So Tony and Bruce were here, and me and Natasha were with his mother." Clint shrugged. "So... sort of."

"Oh." Bobbi nodded. "That's... really nice of you. To do that."

"She died one week later," Natasha said. "Less than week."

Clint found her hand and squeezed it in the silence that followed.

"It's just going to be the four of us next year," Bobbi said a minute or two later, probably trying to bring up the mood a little, maybe regretting that she'd asked about the year before. This was, after all, supposed to be a day to celebrate. "Right? In the group?"

"And Loki," Natasha reminded her. 

"If it even keeps going," Jessica pointed out. "It's not like we ever really _do_ anything."

"Maybe we will," Bobbi said. "If we want to do something, maybe we just need to step up and do it, and not wait for someone else to tell us what to do."

Jessica frowned, and Clint worried for a second that it was going to turn into a fight. Jess had been in a bad mood all day, and he wasn't really sure why, but he knew that asking would get him nowhere. He glanced at Natasha, who lifted one shoulder in the slightest of shrugs. She didn't know either.

"Maybe," Jess said finally. She didn't sound like she much believed it... or that she much cared.

"I think they're starting," Bobbi said, as music began to play and the soon-to-be graduates began to process in.

The ceremony was long, and there was a lot of talking and eventually Clint just tuned out because even with the microphones half of the words were being snatched away by the wind (and whose idea was it to have this thing outside anyway?) and anyway he didn't care. 

Grades-wise, he was pretty sure that Tony was supposed to be valedictorian, but for some reason they hadn't allowed him to make a speech. Instead, they'd decided to have students actually prepare a speech ahead of time and then audition for the chance to be a graduation speaker. He suspected that they'd been afraid of what Tony might say if given the chance at the microphone.

Instead, they got the same old stuff that got spouted at every graduation ever, at least from what he'd seen on TV and in the movies. So he didn't bother listening, because he didn't need to hear about how they were the future of America and how they were all going to do great things, and blah blah blah. Because it was bullshit. Even if most of them bought into it, it was complete bullshit.

Most of them would never do great things. Most of them would live ordinary lives, doing ordinary things, until they were dead. And there was nothing wrong with that, but why kid themselves into thinking that they would all change the world somehow when it just plain wasn't true?

Finally they started to rattle off names, and it seemed to go on forever. Bruce was the first of their friends to make his way across the stage, followed not too long after by Carol. (Banner, Danvers... it would be a while before they got to Tony.) Jessica clapped, but her eyes weren't even on Carol. She was staring resolutely at the back of the seat in front of her.

Clint looked up and saw Carol looking out over the crowd, smiling and waving, and he wondered if she saw them, and if she noticed Jessica's lack of enthusiasm. He saw Natasha nudge her, and Jessica turned and glared at her, but finally she looked up and waved back to Carol just as she was leaving the stage. 

"What is wrong with you?" Natasha hissed. "Is good day for her. You can try to be happy."

"Would you be happy if it was Clint up there and you here?" Jessica hissed back.

And that ended that conversation. Natasha looked over at him, nudged his foot with her own, and he reached over and squeezed the back of her neck, just for a second. They'd gotten lucky that the school (with a healthy push from Mr. Coulson and Mr. Fury, he was pretty sure) had decided that Natasha could move up a grade, so that they would graduate at the same time. Otherwise, it _would_ have been him up there and her just watching.

Except it would be different because he wouldn't be going anywhere. Not without her. He would have just found a place to stay and a job until she graduated. She knew that. He hoped she knew that.

They still didn't know for sure where Carol was going, not entirely, and the not knowing was probably what was eating away at Jess. All along the halls in the school there were pieces of construction paper cut out in the shape of feet, listing each graduating senior's name and where they were going next year. Carol's didn't say anything.

But there was no way she wasn't going to college... was there? She was way too smart not to, he figured. He doubted that he would have made it through the year with anything like decent grades without her help. It would be a waste for her to not keep going, right? Unless she didn't want to, of course, but he was pretty sure she did.

So it didn't really make sense that she hadn't told the school where she was going, unless maybe she didn't know yet, but most people had known since April-ish. And anyway, she'd said she was going to community college. She just didn't seem all that happy about it, and part of him wondered if she was still trying to figure out a way to go somewhere else. But if it was community college, maybe she just didn't want the entire world to know. But wouldn't she at least have told _them_ if she was still working on something? They were her friends, after all, or at least Clint thought they were. The closest that she had to friends here, anyway.

They stayed quiet as the list of names went on, and on, and on and finally Tony's name was called and it was almost as if the entire faculty held its breath, waiting to see if he was going to do anything, cause any trouble, but he didn't, other than posing a little too long for people to take his picture, like he was some kind of celebrity. But Clint guessed maybe he was, on some level, at least in the area. His father was famous, anyway, and Tony was his heir.

Was Mr. Stark even here? They'd only met the man once or twice in passing, and he'd barely acknowledged them, but he wouldn't actually miss his son's graduation, would he? What could be more important than that? 

But Clint could almost hear Tony laughing in his head at the question, a slightly bitter edge to it. Plenty could be more important. A conference. Sealing a business deal. A round of golf. 

Finally it was over, and the graduates threw up their caps in celebration and then had to scramble to find them again before processing out. The audience followed in their wake, but it took longer because there was no order to it. Jessica didn't budge from her seat, and Clint sat back down, too, figuring maybe it was easier to wait it out a bit.

When there were only a few other stragglers left, they got up and went to find their friends. Tony was surrounded by people, shaking hands, smiling and laughing, and Clint doubted very much that he had any idea who most of these people were, and more likely than not they were trying to curry favor with him in the hopes that it would somehow make its way back to his father. Never mind the fact that Tony wouldn't remember a single one of their names or faces a minute from now.

Bruce was off to one side with his grandparent. They were flanked by Steve and Thor, who seemed to be attempting to serve as a buffer between the rather frail-looking elderly couple and the rest of the crowd. Unsurprisingly, Thor was better at it than Steve, although Steve was holding his own, if only by sheer force of will. 

It took them a few minutes to find Carol. She was buried in the middle of the crowd with a group of people who looked quite a bit like her, so family, obviously. The one who had to be her father looked more than a little uncomfortable in the shirt and tie that he was wearing. He kept tugging at the collar, and Clint was sure that he was dying to be able to get out of it and back into jeans and a t-shirt.

As soon as she saw them, she broke from her family and came over, immediately pulling Jessica into a hug. "I thought for a second that you hadn't come," she said. "I'm glad you did."

"Of course I came," Jessica replied, forcing a smile that didn't quite make it into her voice. "I wasn't going to miss your big day."

Carol looked at her, her forehead furrowing. "Are you okay?"

"Of course I am," Jessica replied. 

But it just made Carol look more worried. "Are you sure?" she asked, reaching out to push back Jessica's hair, which she was pretty effectively using to shield her face from being seen properly.

"Carol," a voice said, more sharply than seemed necessary. Her mother? "We need to get going."

Carol sighed. "Are you guys going to Tony's party later?" she asked. 

"Yes," Natasha responded when Jessica did. "You will be there?" From what they'd heard, pretty much the entire senior class had been invited, and although there were plenty of other parties going on, Tony's would, as usual, be _the_ place to be.

"Yeah. I've gotta go do family stuff first, but I'll be there."

"Okay. We will see you."

Carol nodded, hugged them all again quickly, and when her mother snapped at her again that they needed to go, disappeared back into the crowd. 

"Ready to go?" Clint asked. The girls nodded, and they made their way through the thinning crowd to the parking lot. He drove them home, even though Mr. Fury was obviously there and could have taken them. When they arrived Jessica immediately retreated to her room, the sound of her door closing loud even to Clint.

Natasha sighed. _I don't know if I should try to talk to her or not,_ she admitted after changing into more comfortable clothes. _I'm not sure there's anything to say._

_Probably better to leave her alone,_ Clint said. _She'll get over it. Or if she doesn't, it's something she's got to work out with Carol._

Natasha nodded and sighed again. _I just don't know if she will, or if she'll just..._ She made a pushing motion with her hands, then pantomimed building walls up around herself. And it wasn't that they didn't know the signs for the ideas that she was conveying; it was just in this case it was a lot more descriptive not to use them.

Clint wanted to respond that it wasn't their problem, that it was Jessica's problem, but Natasha had to live with Jess, and therefore Jess's problems _were_ her problems, at least on some level. _Maybe..._ , he started, then stopped himself, not sure where the thought was going. But Natasha was looking at him expectantly, like she actually thought he might have some kind of solution. _Maybe we could suggest that she makes something for the party? Usually being in the kitchen calms her down._

_Maybe,_ Natasha agreed, and went to talk to Jess. In the end they all ended up in the kitchen, making a dessert for the party even though it was very likely going to be catered so whatever she brought would be unnecessary. If she knew it for the ploy that it was, she didn't say anything, and by the time they got back in the car to head to the party (which wasn't at Tony's place – his house was big, but not _that_ big) she seemed to be in a better mood.

By the time Carol arrived, she was even smiling, and she greeted her friend warmly, toppling into her arms. (Private party, despite the number of guests, on private property, and although there wasn't _supposed_ to be alcohol more than a few partygoers – Jessica included – had found some.) "Congratulations," she said. "Don't leave me."

Carol laughed, but there was a forced note to it. "I just got here," she said. "Why would I be leaving?"

"Not now," Jessica said. "Later. For college."

"Oh." Carol's smile faltered. "I'm not going anywhere," she said. "I'll still be around." She wrapped her arm around Jess and hugged her against her side. "Now show me where you found the spiked punch."


	52. Chapter 52

Clint had been planning the trip for months. He'd seen an advertisement for the show, and decided that he and Natasha deserved to get to do something fun for once, something a little outside the ordinary. After all, school would be over, and their jobs wouldn't have started yet, and when else were they going to get a chance? 

He'd even asked Mr. Fury's permission – well, approval, anyway, because he wasn't sure that he wouldn't have taken her anyway even if Mr. Fury had said no – to take Natasha on a trip that took her out of state, because he didn't want what he hoped would be a good day to end with another argument and grounding and all of that. He'd given it, although a bit hesitantly. It was obvious that he wasn't thrilled with the idea of them taking off to Boston, just the two of them. 

What did he think they were going to get up to that they didn't already do in Mr. Fury's own house?, Clint wondered. But maybe it wasn't about sex. Maybe it was just the whole 'safety in numbers' thing that a big group would have conveyed, but Clint didn't want to go in a group. He wanted to take his girlfriend on a date. 

Novel concept, that. He wasn't sure he could even remember the last time the two of them did anything, just them, without Carol and Jess or _someone_ tagging along.

Natasha knew they were going to Boston, and she knew that they were going to see a show, but he'd been pretty sparse on the details. He wanted it to be at least a little bit of a surprise, and thankfully she didn't try to pry it out of him. It was possible that she'd already figured it out, of course. It wouldn't take more than a few minutes on the internet and half a brain to do so. 

"Don't drive into Boston," Carol told them as they ate lunch before leaving. "I love my city, but getting anywhere by car is a pain in the ass."

"How are we supposed to get there, then?" Clint asked. 

"Take the T. Drive to Alewife – it's the end of the Red Line – and park there. It's only seven dollars, so it's probably cheaper than parking in the city, too. Take the train to South Station, then get the Silver Line. It's a bus, but unlike most of the busses, it actually shows up regularly. It should drop you off right in front of where you're going." Because she knew where they were going. He'd told her, thinking maybe she'd know something about the area, maybe know a restaurant or something where they could have dinner after the show. It turned out it was pretty much all seafood in that area, and Clint wasn't sure what Natasha's feelings were about that, overall, so he hadn't made any definite plans in that direction.

"It'll take longer," she added, "but it's worth it to avoid the hassle. I promise. If you're leaving now, you should still get there with plenty of time."

"Thanks," Clint said, and reprogrammed the GPS on his phone to tell them how to get to Alewife, rather than the venue.

The drive was quiet, but it was hard for them to talk in the car, because Clint had to keep his eyes on the road, so he couldn't see very well if Natasha signed, and he couldn't get the visual cues from her lips if she spoke to help him make sense of the sounds. So they just put in some music (Clint mostly heard the rhythms – lyrics weren't really his forte unless he was focusing) and sometimes Natasha sang along quietly, and only spoke once in a while. 

They found the station without a problem, and parked the car. Clint almost forgot his wallet, which he'd taken out of his pocket to pay the toll along the way, but realized it when they were just a few steps from the car. He would have realized it anyway when he went to pay for train fare, but he was glad that he'd spared himself the trip all the way back to the garage.

Carol hadn't been wrong. The train got them to where the busses were, and the bus did, in fact, drop them off right in front of their destination. They climbed down, and for a minute just stood there as Natasha stared, wide-eyed, at the blue and yellow striped tent.

"Is circus?" she asked.

"Sort of," Clint said. "Come on." He nudged her shoulder with his own, and they crossed the street, entering the fenced in area that contained the Cirque du Soleil tents. They were early; things were just starting to open up, but he was glad because it meant they could look at things without having to wait too long and without feeling penned in by a crowd.

They got big soft pretzels and candy first, because despite having eaten lunch they were both hungry, and it would be a while before they would be able to have dinner. Then they looked over the things that they had for sale – t-shirts and hats, programs, DVDs, red foam noses... Most of it was more than either of them could afford (especially Clint, who'd already paid for the tickets, the tolls, the gas to get there and back...), so in the end they just got a program. 

They had to wait outside for a little bit before the tent (or Grand Chapiteau, as they called it) was opened. Their seats weren't great, but they weren't bad; they'd been the best that Clint could afford, and even then it had been a week's worth of doing grunt work for neighbors to pay for them. He didn't regret it, though. Not when Natasha's was sitting next to him, eyes still wide as she took in their surroundings. He'd given her the aisle seat so that they didn't have to worry about her sitting next to any strangers, although it turned out to be a non-issue because the person on Clint's other side was just your average clean-cut guy who minded his own business.

Clint managed not to yelp when all of a sudden Natasha's fingers dug into his arm, feeling like they sank straight through to the bone. "Look," she hissed, and pointed to a costumed figure strutting down the aisle. The costume was clearly meant to be reminiscent of a peacock. "Look!" she said again, pointing to another performer. This one was in red, with what seemed to be a horse tail, and she carried a bow. The program told them that she was one of the Amazons. 

"I like her," Clint said.

"You like bow," Natasha replied.

"Yeah, mostly." He grinned... then grimaced as Natasha crushed his hand in her grip as another one of the Amazons (this one carried a stick rather than a bow) came up the aisle right beside them. When she retreated back down toward the stage, Natasha's fingers loosened, and he brought their joined hands up to kiss the back of hers. 

"Sorry," she said, but he didn't think she really was... or at least not sorry enough not to do it again every time one of the performers was nearby.

He was a little bit relieved when they all disappeared backstage... but then the show began.

The pain was worth it, though. The pain was absolutely worth it, because he'd never seen Natasha like this. For the first time, she was acting like the seventeen-year-old that she actually was... or maybe the child that she'd never really gotten a chance to be. She gasped and clapped (once Clint reassured her that yes, really, it was all right to do so – it wasn't like a musical where you were supposed to wait until the song was over to applaud – you could cheer in the middle of the act, and really, the performers expected and _wanted_ you to) and at one point leaned in to babble something excitedly in Russian into his ear... which of course he didn't understand. She stopped herself when she realized what she was doing and laughed. 

_What?_ , he asked, but she just shook her head. Whatever it was probably wasn't that important, or maybe she would tell him later. 

The lights came up after the Amazons act, where they'd flown from one set of uneven bars to another, while fending off a group of rogue castaway boys who wanted to join in. Natasha looked at him, her eyes bright, cheeks flushed. _Thank you,_ she signed. _Thank you for this._ And she kissed him, hard, not caring who was around or who saw (it was all only strangers anyway).

He folded down his middle and ring finger and held up his hand, and she took it and kissed his knuckles, forming the same sign back at him, and then tucked herself under his arm, paging through the program again slowly, so that he could look with her if he wanted to.

_I'm surprised,_ she said as she looked at the insert that showed the cast. _Only three Russians._

Clint was a little surprised, too. In his experience, a lot of circus performers were eastern European. This cast had a lot more Americans and Canadians than he would have expected. It also had a lot more women than seemed usual, but considering the fact that when the disembodied voice of the ringmaster, emcee, whatever you wanted to call it, welcomed them, they'd been greeted as 'ladies and ladies', maybe that was kind of the point. Even the clown playing the male ship's captain trying to woo one of the women from the audience was played by a woman. Only the castaways were men, and the one called Romeo who was the love interest in what passed for a plot, and a few others. Even the musicians were all female. 

Finally everyone was back in their seats, and the show started again with the castaways hurling each other into the air on a teeterboard, and flirting with pretty much anyone who looked their way. The act got the loudest cheers so far, and deservedly so. 

After that, it all seemed to go by in a flash, and before they knew it (and before Clint really felt ready) it was over, and the cast was taking their bows. The lights came up again and Natasha led them outside before stopping, out of the way of the crowd pouring out of the tent, and just looked at him.

_Okay?_ , he asked, because he wasn't sure that she was. 

_Yes, just..._ Just what, she couldn't seem to find the words for. Which he got. He held out his hands, and she slid into his arms, and for a moment he just held her tight, protective even though there was nothing to protect her from. The tumult was internal, and he couldn't fix that, but at least he could shore her up from the outside while she got the inside back in line. 

_I wish we could meet them,_ she said, looking wistfully back at the tent as they walked away. _I wish I could tell them thank you._

_I wish we could too,_ Clint said. There was a part of him that wondered if maybe he could scam his way backstage. But this wasn't like his circus, or any circus he'd ever been to. This was what the circus wanted to be when it grew up, or what it could be if you had money to throw around to get the best and the brightest. This was circus with class. 

It made him homesick, but he knew, bone deep, that there was no place for someone like him here. And that any connections he still had to the circus world wouldn't carry any weight in a place like this. He was just any other audience member, and no one would have any reason to treat him as anything else. 

So they just headed back to the bus, lucky to get seats as it filled up. Once they were back on the train and had room to move again, he asked, _So you liked it?_

_I liked it,_ she confirmed. _I loved it._ The corner of her mouth quirked up. _I'm sure that Carol would have something to say about the fact that the young girl coming of age storyline had to involve her falling in love with a boy, but I'm not going to think too much about that part._

Clint laughed. _I'm sure she would._ Like why did it have to be a boy? Why couldn't it be a girl, on an island full of girls? (Because that would potentially alienate a lot of the audience, and they need to make money, but Carol wouldn't accept that argument. Or she would, but then it would become a whole other argument about how people needed to get over themselves, etc.) Why did there have to be a love story at all? (Because it was something universal and easy for people to relate to, Carol. Almost everyone knew what falling in love was like, or dreamed of falling in love.) 

But Carol wasn't here, and Natasha was happy, so who cared if the plot was cliché and not as inclusive as it might be?

The drive home seemed even longer than the drive there, but then it was getting late and Clint was tired. Finally they pulled into the driveway, and Natasha let them into the house. (Clint had a key, but he rarely used it. It still didn't feel completely right, being able to just walk in any time he wanted. He wasn't even 100% sure that Mr. Fury knew that he had it.) 

"How was the show?" Carol called from the kitchen. "Did you have a good time?"

They started to laugh, and Clint imagined that Carol was probably looking at Jessica, baffled, which just made him laugh harder. 

"What did I say?" Carol asked, poking her head into the hall.

"Nothing," Natasha said. "Yes, we have good time. The show was amazing."

"That's good. Was it okay, taking the T?"

"It drop us off right in front of tent, like you say," Natasha said. "Thank you."

"Welcome," Carol said, and went back into the kitchen to get whatever she'd been in there for before retreating to the living room to rejoin Jessica and whatever cooking show she was watching, unless somehow Carol had convinced her to change the channel, which was possible, because Carol had some kind of power that the rest of them didn't.

They went upstairs and fell into bed, exhausted by the day even though they'd spent most of it sitting. Natasha pushed herself up on one elbow. _Thank you,_ she signed. _Again. A hundred times._

_You're welcome,_ he replied. _It was... we deserved it._

_We did,_ she agreed. _This is... the best day._

He couldn't disagree, so he just kissed her instead.


	53. Chapter 53

They let Steve decide where he wanted to go for the Fourth of July. It was his birthday, after all. Carol was campaigning for Boston, of course (and they still weren't sure whether she remembered that she'd met them the year before), but since Bruce and Tony weren't there, they didn't actually _need_ to travel that far to get the whole group together.

In the end, he decided to stay closer to home, so they decided to set up camp in a park where they would have a good view of the fireworks. They had originally planned to have a cookout at Mr. Fury's first, and then head over, but there was some concern about actually being able to find a place for all of them to be once the crowds started to fill in... never mind that the parking situation would likely be horrendous. So they packed a picnic instead, and got there in the early afternoon, while things were still relatively calm (although they certainly weren't the only people already staking out a good viewing spot).

Peggy had her niece with her again. Clint got the feeling that there was a story there, but whatever it was, she wasn't talking about it. Not that it was really any of their business. Probably Steve knew, and it wasn't like having Sharon there was a _problem_ , although it did force them to be a little more careful about what they said. The last thing they needed was to have to explain what certain words meant, or have her repeat a swear word at camp or wherever she normally went during the day on summer vacation.

Jessica had gone a little bit wild making food for the picnic, and when combined with other people's contributions, they were well set up for the hours that they were going to be there. Steve had brought a deck of cards, and Loki (who had surprised them all by actually showing up) had brought Cards Against Humanity... which maybe wasn't the best choice for a game to play when Sharon was around, but maybe they could get away with it. How much attention did little kids pay to that kind of thing? And Tony had his tablet, which had a chess game on it that he seemed determined to trounce everyone on. (Clint wasn't sure he wasn't cheating, but then he wasn't the world's greatest chess player so maybe Tony was just better.)

After everyone had had something to eat, people started to scatter a bit. Peggy and Steve took Sharon to the play area, and Loki saw some of his theater friends and went to go spend some time with them. Thor managed to convince Carol and Bobbi to join him in a game of Frisbee, and with a little cajoling Carol roped Jess in, too. Pepper followed a few minutes later.

_Do you want to play?_ , Natasha asked Clint, inclining her head toward their friends' retreating backs. 

_Do you?_

_I asked you first,_ she countered. 

Clint shrugged. _If you do._

_That's not an answer._ She scowled at him, and he wasn't sure if it was meant to be playful or not. 

It wasn't. And the truth was Clint didn't know the answer. Yes, he wanted to play, but Thor had asked the girls, not him... but he guessed maybe it had been a more general invitation, really, and was he really going to turn them away if they decided to join? 

And when had he started feeling like he was somehow outside of the group that he'd been one of the founding members of? But then, had he ever really felt like he was in it? He could blame his ears, blame the fact that he had a tendency to miss half of what was going on when the group was together, because everyone would talk on top of each other and he just got to a point where he lost track and gave up, tuning everyone out because he would get frustrated otherwise.

But you didn't need to be able to hear to play Frisbee, right? And what else were they going to do? If they – he – wasn't part of the group whose fault was it?

"Yes," he said. "I want to play." He pushed himself up and then offered Natasha his hand. "Coming?"

She reached up and took it, allowing him to pull her up and almost into his arms. She smiled, looking almost smug, like she'd tricked him into doing something he wouldn't otherwise have done.

So they joined the game, and even though Clint couldn't always hear when his name was called to tell him that the disc was coming his way, they had a good time. Finally they all retreated back to the blanket, which was being watched over by Tony and Pepper, who were arguing about something that Clint didn't bother to try and figure out. 

"I wish there was a pool here," Thor said, pulling his t-shirt away from his sweaty skin. 

"There's a little kids play area with sprinklers and stuff," Peggy offered, grinning. 

"Don't tempt me," Thor said, smiling back. "I suspect that the parents wouldn't be too thrilled if a bunch of teenagers invaded."

"Probably not," Peggy admitted.

Sharon came running back with her hands full of flowers – clover that littered the lawn – and dumped them into Peggy's lap. "Make me a crown," she said. "Like we saw on the internet."

"I don't know how to make a crown," Peggy said. "I'm sorry."

Clint hesitated, then said, "Give them to me. I do."

Natasha looked at him, her eyebrows creeping toward her hairline. "You know how to make flower crown?"

"It's not hard," he said. "It's just braiding."

"You know how to braid?"

"Yes, I know how to braid. It's not entirely different from splicing ropes together and stuff." He took the flowers from Sharon and picked up a few. "They need to have long stems," he said, showing her. "Some of these I don't know if I'll be able to use, but we'll see."

The little girl pressed herself against his knee, watching him intently until she realized that it wasn't going to take just a couple of minutes, and she bounced up and went to gather more flowers with long stems, just in case. Clint was relieved, because it was really too hot and sticky to have a miniature furnace half in his lap.

"You surprise me," Natasha said, her voice low. She picked up a few of the flowers, examining them. 

"Is that a bad thing?" Clint asked.

"No. Is good." But she didn't look at him, and he wondered if she really meant it. He guessed that being able to braid flowers together to make a crown wasn't exactly the most impressive skill in the world. "Do you want me to show you?"

For a second she didn't answer, frowning at the blooms in her hands, and then she nodded. "Yes. Show me."

So he showed her how to weave the stems together, adding new ones as they went so that the crown wouldn't have great big gaps of stem, and also so when one ran out, there was another to keep braiding with. Finally they finished, and Natasha held hers up. 

"I think yours is better than mine," she said. 

"I think yours is pretty good for a first try," Clint told her. 

"Then you do not mind wearing it?"

He laughed. "Nope." And he let her put it on his head, figuring it wouldn't last long anyway. It looked dangerously close to disintegration.

Sharon came back, and beamed when she saw the completed crown. She knelt down so Clint could put it on her head, then twirled and dropped the flowers she'd gathered that had turned out to be unnecessary in a circle around her.

She stopped after a minute and looked at them, first Natasha, then Clint, then back at Natasha. "Can I be the flower girl?" she asked.

Natasha blinked. "For what?"

"For when you get married. Can I?"

"I am not getting married," Natasha said. 

"Not _now_ ," Sharon said, sounding exasperated. "But when you do."

"Who I am going to marry?" Natasha asked.

Sharon pointed at Clint. "Him. _Duh._ "

"Sharon, leave them alone," Peggy said. "I'm sorry," she told them. "Sometimes she gets these ideas."

"Is fine," Natasha said, but she didn't sound like she was entirely sure that it was, and Clint wasn't sure what he should do, or if he should do anything at all. Should he give her space, or should he try to comfort her? Or should he just pretend it hadn't happened at all? Laugh it off? But it wasn't funny...

"Come," Natasha said, standing up abruptly and holding out her hand.

He pushed himself up and followed her as she walked away from everyone else. After a minute she reached across the half a foot of space between them and took his hand, lacing their fingers together. Their palms were sticking together within minutes, but neither of them pulled away. 

They found themselves wandering through a rose garden. The flowers were past their prime, but there were still plenty that were clinging on to a few blooms. The garden was apparently famous, although Clint had no idea why. Maybe it was old or something. He was paying more attention to Natasha than to the flowers anyway.

She finally disentangled her hand from his and signed, _Sometimes I actually forget for a minute._

_Forget what?_ , he asked when it became clear she wasn't going to continue.

_Forget that I'm not like everyone else. That I'm not just another kid._

Oh. He didn't know how to respond to that, or why Sharon's deciding that the two of them ought to get married would make her realize that she was any different than anyone else. It wasn't as if they _couldn't_ get married if they wanted to... when they were old enough, and if they were still together. 

That thought was enough to make Clint as if he'd swallowed several ice cubes whole. The idea of life without her...

_Sometimes you are,_ he said finally. _Now. Sometimes you are just like everyone else._

She looked at him, frowned, shrugged. _Sometimes. Maybe._

_You're just like our friends, anyway,_ Clint said. _The stories are different, but none of us are exactly **normal**. Except maybe Thor,_ he added after a second's thought. _But he has to live with Loki and that's enough to make anyone just a little bit crazy._

_It's not the same,_ Natasha said. She looked like she might say more, but then she just let her hands drop. 

_I know,_ Clint said. He held out his arms to her, palms up, and breathed her in when she slid into them and pressed close. The air was scented with roses, but there was also the smell of her shampoo and the mild tang of sweat and something else that at least in his mind was uniquely her, and it smelled like home.

He wondered if he should tell her that, if he _could_ tell her that, but then some kids went tearing by, playing tag through the rows of rose bushes, and they had to break apart to keep from being run over. 

_Okay?_ , he asked her, and not because of their near-miss as human bowling pins.

_Okay,_ she said, and maybe she meant it and maybe she didn't, but she managed something at least a little like a smile. 

They returned to their friends and let themselves be sucked into their games, and Clint thought about the fact that Natasha was right – sometimes he did start to feel like he was just any other kid. Except then everyone would laugh and he was left wondering what had happened because he hadn't heard the joke, and he would smile like he got it because what else was he supposed to do? A joke wasn't funny when it had to be repeated or explained.

Dinner was more of the picnic food, and after that they had cupcakes, all decked out in red, white and blue, for Steve's birthday. They teased him for being old – nearly twenty now – which he accepted with good humor. He was actually one of the youngest in his grade, though; Thor and Peggy were both older than he was. (And Clint realized he wasn't actually much younger; he would be nineteen in October, and still in high school. He kind of hoped that everyone would just forget about it when it rolled around. There wouldn't be that many of them left to remember, anyway.)

And then, finally, the fireworks started. Natasha settled against him, her back to his chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, loosely at first but then tighter when the sounds of the explosions made her flinch. It was moments like this where he realized that being deaf wasn't all bad. All he had to do to shut out the noise was turn off his hearing aids. 

The show seemed to go on forever, and not long enough at all. Finally it ended with a huge burst of noise and color that finally faded into clouds of smoke that the breeze blew away. They began to gather their things, not really in any hurry because traffic was going to be a nightmare and it was easier to just wait for a lot of it to clear up before attempting to leave themselves.

"You're coming over, right?" Jessica asked Carol. 

"Of course," Carol said. "That was the plan."

"Okay." Jess packed the last of the food into the cooler.

They gathered their things and headed pack towards the parking, the group fragmenting as they found their cars and departed in groups of two or three. (They probably could have planned the carpooling better, but the plans had all been a little bit last minute.) Finally it was just the four of them, trying to figure out how they'd gotten everything into Clint's car in the first place. 

"It's like Tetris," Carol said, which earned her blank stares. "Never mind. Give it here. I'll figure it out."

Which she did, and they piled into the car and began the long drive back to Mr. Fury's place. He hadn't waited up, so they crept in as quietly as they could so as not to wake him, and with whispered good nights, shut themselves in the bedrooms.

Natasha sat down on the edge of the bed with a sigh. _At least we're not in trouble this year,_ she said. 

Clint smiled. _It helps that we had permission to go where we were going._

_Somehow, it's not as fun._

He smiled again, but it was a bit more lopsided. He didn't disagree. It felt sort of like the opposite of Independence Day, in a way... except it wasn't just today. It was every day. Somewhere along the line he'd surrendered the part of himself that did what he wanted, when he wanted, and damn the consequences. He'd been tamed by regular meals and a roof over his head that wasn't in a different town every few days. 

He'd been more of an adult when he was a child than he was now, and when he thought about it, it rankled. So he tried not to think too much about it. They only had another year, and then they could pick up and go wherever they wanted, do what they wanted, be who they wanted, and no one could do or say anything about it.

... Except the United States Department of Immigration, but he really didn't want to think about that either. He looked at Natasha, and she was looking back at him. He wanted to ask what was going on in her head, but he didn't. He just stripped down to his boxers and crawled into bed beside her, and let the rhythm of her breathing (which took a long time to even out) lull him to sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy Fourth of July to the Americans. Happy Friday to everyone else for whom it is still Friday, and happy whatever day it is for you if it's not! 
> 
> And Happy Birthday to Steve!
> 
> (There will still be a chapter on Sunday, don't worry!)


	54. Chapter 54

Natasha shook him awake, propped up on one elbow and leaning over him. _Something's wrong,_ she signed. 

His heart lurched, and he immediately sat up, looking for some indication of what Natasha was referring to, some sort of clue as to what had her alarmed. Not that she looked alarmed, exactly, just... confused? Concerned? A mix of both, he guessed. _What is it?_

_I don't know,_ Natasha admitted. _Just... a feeling. And Jessica is banging around the kitchen._

_Jess is always banging around the kitchen,_ Clint pointed out. _This is nothing new._

_Not like this,_ Natasha replied. _Usually if she's the first one up in the morning – especially on a weekend – she tries to be quiet so she doesn't wake anyone else up. She's not trying today._

Clint wanted to say, 'Mr. Fury will deal with it,' but the truth was that he wasn't sure that Mr. Fury _would_ deal with it... or that he _could_. Jessica had settled in all right in the house; she'd been there almost a year now. But she still hadn't opened up to any of them, really, about where she'd come from or what she'd been through, and there were still times when she seemed to shrink into herself when Mr. Fury got too close to her.

So there was a good chance that if Mr. Fury tried to find out what was going on, she would just tell him nothing, she was _fine_ , and she was sorry for making so much noise, her ears were still ringing from the fireworks the night before, etcetera, etcetera, blah blah blah. She would make it sound good because she was a good liar. Not as good as Natasha, maybe, or at least Natasha around other people, but pretty damn good.

Like Clint might actually believe that she was okay, that she really was as fine as she claimed to be, if he didn't have Natasha to tell him how she still got up in the middle of the night as often as not and sat up, watching re-runs of shows that she'd seen a dozen or more times before, staring blankly at the screen because she didn't want to go back to sleep for fear of what waited for her there.

It was a feeling that he was more than familiar with.

_Do you think we should check on her?_ , Clint asked. 

Natasha's face twisted into a frown. _I don't know,_ she said. _Part of me says to go try to figure it out. Another part says to just leave it alone, she's probably just had a bad night and she'll get over it. It happens to all of us._

_Maybe Carol will handle it,_ Clint pointed out. _She's good at calming her down._

_I think she's still asleep somehow,_ Natasha said. _I don't hear her._

Which made Clint reach for his hearing aids and put them in, but he couldn't really hear much of anything even then. He did hear the occasional thump or clatter from the kitchen, but nothing else. He sighed, sitting up and stretching.

As he turned, he happened to glance out the window, and although he registered almost instantly that something was off, something was out of place (it was the marksman in him, he thought, that tended to pick up on visual cues pretty quickly, allowing him to assess a situation in less time than it might take the average person) it took a second for him to realize what it was. "'Tasha," he said softly, drawing her attention to the window. _Carol's car is gone._

Her hands came up, presumably to form the sign for 'what', but she never completed it. Her frown deepened. _Where would she go?_

_No idea,_ Clint said. _But it might explain why Jess is in a bad mood._

But even then it didn't make sense. Why would Carol have left? Maybe she had somewhere to be, but if that was true, wouldn't she have told Jessica? And if it came up unexpectedly, wouldn't she have told her? It wasn't as if they had complete control over their lives. They still had parents and families to answer to, whether they liked it or not. And why would that bother Jess?

Clint thought back to the night before, trying to remember if Carol had somehow managed to get access to any alcohol. If she had, he hadn't noticed; she'd seemed completely sober when they'd gotten home. (Not that she wasn't pretty good at hiding it when she wasn't entirely sober, at least when she needed to, but he tried not to think too much about that.) So if she'd gone somewhere, at least she wasn't driving drunk.

Maybe she'd left in the middle of the night and she _hadn't_ told Jess she was going, and that's what was going on? But why would she do that? 

There was only one way to find out, and that was to ask Jessica... and neither of them wanted to do that. At least not when there was the potential for her to have a knife close to hand when they did. 

_We should probably go down,_ Natasha said finally, although the noise seemed to have stopped. _Make sure she's all right._

_Probably,_ Clint agreed, but they still dawdled, until there was a thud and a curse followed by several more thuds. 

But by the time they got downstairs a minute later, everything appeared, at least on the surface, to be normal. Clint suspected that Jessica had heard them coming and put on a happy face for them, because she smiled when they stepped into the room, a little bit more cautiously than they might on an average day. "Morning," she said brightly. "Pancakes?"

They ate, because maybe it would help bring Jess back down to her usual level of keyed up (and also because they were hungry). It wasn't until Jessica was well away from any sharp implements, and seemingly calm, that Clint dared to ask, "Where's Carol?"

Something flickered in Jessica's eyes before she shrugged. "She had to go home," she said. "Some family thing."

"Why would they schedule a family thing for this early on a Saturday morning?" Clint asked, because even though he was pretty sure he shouldn't believe her, it was a logical follow-up question, especially when the family in question had three teenagers.

"I don't know," Jessica said. "But they did."

"She is coming back later?" Natasha asked.

"How should I know?" Jessica snapped. "Probably not. It's... all day." And she shoved her plate away and retreated from the kitchen, leaving them to handle the clean-up. (Which they couldn't and didn't really argue with, since Jess had done the cooking.)

_She's lying,_ Natasha said. _Not even very well._

_Yeah,_ Clint agreed. _She's usually better at it than this._

_So something really happened._ There was a pause in the conversation as Natasha washed one of the dishes that couldn't go into the dishwasher, then handed it to him to be dried. 

He put it away and signed back, _You think they had a fight?_

_If they did, it wasn't a loud one,_ Natasha said. _I didn't hear anything._ But that wasn't really surprising. They were all pretty good at keeping quiet when necessary... and in this house which was big enough but not overly large, especially when five people in it, it was often necessary.

_They'll make up,_ Clint said with more confidence than he'd felt. He'd never really seen Jessica this upset before. Maybe the time they'd had to go retrieve her and Carol from Massachusetts, but then she'd been more freaked out than upset, and even though Carol deserved it he wasn't sure Jessica had ever really gotten properly mad at her. So what had changed?

"You'd better not be talking about me," Jessica snarled as she stomped back through the kitchen, dressed now in clothes she didn't care about ruining, her destination obviously the garden. The sliding glass door thumped shut behind her.

Natasha glanced at Clint and rolled her eyes, one shoulder rising, then dropping again. _It's none of our business anyway._

Except it kind of was, in that it affected them. Natasha had to live with Jessica, and it would make things awkward with their group of friends if Jess and Carol had had a falling out, because he couldn't see a scenario where they wouldn't, at least on some level, be forced to choose. And if they were, he was pretty sure that most people of them would choose Carol over Jess any day of the week.

Hopefully it wouldn't come down to that.

_Be right back._ Natasha went outside, barefoot across the lawn, her passing marked by footprints in the dew. She came back a minute later and rolled her eyes again. _I asked if she wanted any help. She said no... in so many more words._

Clint laughed, then choked it back in case somehow Jessica could hear it, or sense it, or something. He really didn't need to put her in a worse mood.

It wasn't until later – much later – that they found out what had happened. Jessica had spent most of the day locked in her room, only emerging because it was her turn to cook dinner... or maybe it wasn't and she'd decided to do it anyway. She sat down on the patio steps with a bucket of peas at her side, pulling them out one by one to snap off the ends and dump them into a bowl in front of her.

Natasha went out to help, figuring food would happen a lot quicker that way, and Clint joined them because what else was he going to do? At least they didn't have to shell them, he figured. Jessica moved the pail so that it was where all three of them could reach it.

Minutes passed, and the pile in the bucket shrank and the one in the bowl grew.

Then, finally: "She kissed me."

Clint looked up, not sure he'd actually understood, but the upward curve of Natasha's eyebrows and the slight downward curve of her mouth that he knew meant she was either concerned or fighting back a smile or both told him that he'd probably heard right.

"She kissed me," Jessica repeated. "That's why she's gone. She kissed me and I told her to go. To leave me alone and to never come back."

"Because she kissed you," Natasha said, not a question.

"Yes. She had no right. It's – we're – I'm... " The words stumbled to a halt, and Jessica's cheeks flushed, a mix of anger and embarrassment. 

They'd seen this coming. He had, and Natasha had. Or... maybe they hadn't seen it coming, exactly, but it didn't really surprise him, or her either from the looks of things. Carol had been flirting with Jessica for ages, and Jess had, knowingly or not, been flirting back. At least it had looked that way from the outside. And it wasn't hard to tell that Carol's feeling ran pretty deep, if you were paying attention to how she looked at Jess, especially when Jess wasn't looking. And he'd thought maybe it was mutual, considering that all Carol had to do was touch Jessica and she would pretty much instantly be at least a little calmer. They were together all the time, and...

Well, he guessed he'd just assumed, like people had assumed with him and Natasha, and even if they hadn't been all the way right in the beginning, they hadn't been all the way wrong either.

And he wasn't sure that he was all the way wrong, even now. Because if it was just that Jessica didn't feel that way, would she be this upset? If she didn't feel _something_ , wouldn't she have just laughed it off (okay, laughing would probably have been a bad move) or just told her that she was sorry but she just wanted to be friends? 

It would have hurt Carol, sure, but... to send her away? To tell her to never come back? Over one kiss?

He noticed then that Jessica's hands were shaking, and she snapped one of the peapods in half instead of just breaking off the end, and she pitched it out into the yard. "God _damn_ it."

Natasha looked at her, quiet, calm, unmoving. "I don't think so."

"You don't— what?" Jessica stared at her.

"I don't think God damns it. I think that is just the closed minds of the people you grow up with, speaking in your ear, telling you a thing is wrong. But how love can be wrong?"

Silence. Silence that stretched so long it seemed like there ought to have been a perceptible shift in the sun's position in the sky. 

And then almost too quiet for him to hear, but he could read the words on Jessica's lips, "I need to call Carol."

She disappeared into the house, and Natasha sighed. _I guess I'll be making dinner, then._

But before she could get started, Jessica was back downstairs, her phone in her hand, gripping it so tight her knuckles were white. "She's not answering."

Clint wasn't surprised. After all, Jessica had told her to leave and never come back, so why would she want to talk to her now? Not to mention the fact that in the wake of that kind of rejection, on top of everything else that was going on, he had a sinking feeling that he knew exactly who Carol had turned to for comfort: Jack, or Jim, or maybe Captain Morgan. 

"I'll try," Clint said, and pulled his phone from his pocket. Not wanting Jessica peering over his shoulder and breathing down his neck, he went upstairs and shut himself in Natasha's room, trusting her to keep Jess distracted. Rather than calling, he sent a text: 'Don't do anything stupid.'

A minute passed, and then another. Carol had to know that he was still here, and she was smart enough to figure out that he was probably doing this on Jessica's behalf. But he wasn't. He was doing it because Carol was his friend, and he didn't want anything to happen to her. 

Finally his phone vibrated in his hand. 'Too late.'

His heart lurched, because although he could hope she was just referring to what had happened the night before with Jess, it might mean something else entirely, and then... He didn't want to spend the aftermath of another holiday in the hospital. 'Where are you?'

'Out.'

Not helpful. 'Alone?'

'Yeah.'

'Safe?'

Another long pause, long enough to make his stomach tie itself in knots. 'Enough.'

'You drive there?'

'Who cares?'

Clint shook his phone as if it was actually Carol, but of course it did no good. He couldn't knock sense into her that way, no matter how hard he tried. 'I do. Natasha does. Jess does. Where are you?'

'Jess doesn't.'

'Jess DOES. You think she'd flip out if she didn't?'

As seconds ticked by, Clint imagined Carol taking another drink, staring at her phone not knowing whether to believe or not. But no answer came, and finally he texted again, 'I'll come get you if you tell me where you are. You can talk.'

'She doesn't want to talk.'

'She tried to call you.'

'So? She has nothing to say I want to hear.'

'How do you know unless you actually talk to her?'

'I know.'

'You're psychic? Maybe we should run off and (re)join the circus together.'

He didn't know if it made Carol laugh. He hoped it did. He sent another message. 'Tell me where you are. I'll come get you. You can't drive like that.'

'I don't want to see her.'

'Fine. I just want to make sure you're safe.'

Finally Carol told him where she was, and thankfully she hadn't managed to flee to another state or anything like that before deciding to get trashed. If she was. Her texts were pretty coherent, so maybe he had it all wrong.

'I'll see you soon,' he told her, and then went back inside. "I've gotta go for a little bit," he told them. "I'll be back later." He hoped he would, anyway. 

Natasha followed him to the door. _Just let me know what's going on,_ she said. 

_I will._ He kissed her forehead, then her lips, and she watched from the doorway as he went to his car and got in, going to make sure that Carol really hadn't done anything stupid beyond kissing Jessica, which hopefully he could convince her hadn't been as stupid as she'd thought. If it was even his place to do so. 

He found Carol where she'd said she be: in the hayloft of a barn on a farm that had long since stopped farming. He climbed up the ladder and tripped as he stepped on the platform, kicking up dust from the old, moldy hay as he stumbled. He sneezed.

Carol laughed. "Even I'm more coordinated than that, and I'm drunk," she declared. She offered up a nearly empty bottle (that Clint hoped like hell hadn't started out full because how he was going to get her down to get her to a hospital when the symptoms of alcohol poisoning set in, he didn't know) as evidence.

"A little early for that, isn't it?" Clint asked, stepping carefully over to where she was because how was he supposed to know how sturdy this thing was? The last thing he needed was to fall through a hole and break a leg... or his neck. 

"Not early if you haven't slept," Carol said. "Late. Very late."

"Maybe you should get some sleep then," he suggested, sitting down beside her and gently wresting the bottle from her grip. She didn't really fight. 

"Can't sleep," she said, even as she slumped against him. "She's there."

"Who's where?" he asked. 

"Jessica. In my head." She poked her temple. "All over me. I thought..." She shook her head. "I was sober. Stone cold sober and dumb as a box of rocks." She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I thought maybe..." 

"Maybe what?"

"Maybe she... the way she looks... _looked_ at me... the way she _stared_ like she was trying to figure something out, trying to figure _me_ out, like she wanted to say something but didn't know what to say or how to say it, like... like she _wanted_ something but... I thought..." She hit herself in the head with the side of her fist. "Stupid, idiot Carol."

Clint took her hand and held it to keep her from hitting herself again. "She panicked," he said. "She's... I don't know what you know. I don't know what she's told you. Maybe not much. But she's got a lot of shit from her past that even if she doesn't want to admit it is still pretty stuck in her head, y'know?"

"What's she told you?" Carol asked. "More than me, I'm sure."

"I'm not," Clint said. "I know pretty much nothing. What she's said doesn't add up to much, and only a little bit more from what Natasha has guessed. But I know what it's like to have a whole story you don't want to talk about, a whole past that you'd rather forget." His wasn't the same. Not even close. But he knew what it was like to keep secrets, and he knew what it was like to have them rear their ugly heads at all the wrong times, sending him spiraling.

"She told me to leave. She said she never wanted to see me again."

"I know," Clint said. "She also says that she's fine all the time, and we all know that's a lie."

Carol reached over to take the bottle back from him, but he held it out of her reach and she soon gave up. "If she doesn't... if she's not... That's okay. I can live with that. But she's my _friend_. She's my _best_ friend, and even if I can't be in love with her I love her and..." She shrugged, swallowing hard.

"So tell her that. Talk to her, and tell her that. I can't promise anything, but I know she wants to talk to you. So why don't you sleep this off, and I'll tell her you're okay, and in the morning you can talk to her and maybe it'll be all right."

"And maybe it won't," Carol replied.

"Maybe it won't," Clint agreed. "But it can't really get any worse, can it?"

"Things can always get worse," Carol said. "But okay."

"Okay. Let's get you home." _And hope like hell that somehow this all works out._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, there will be bonus scenes showing exactly what went/is going to go down between Carol and Jess. They're already written and everything. Not sure what days I'll be posting them, but expect them this week!


	55. Chapter 55

"Remind me again why we thought this was a good idea," Clint grumbled, handing over a cup of coffee to Natasha. She took it, cupping it between her palms and took a slow sip. Her eyes were only half open, like she hadn't quite woken up yet. "Where's Jessica?"

"I don't know," she said. "I don't care."

"Did something happen?" Although they were usually on decent terms these days, Clint knew that things weren't always perfect between Natasha and Jess, just like things weren't always perfect between him and his foster brothers. Although maybe that wasn't the best comparison, because Natasha and Jess were actually friends, at least on some level, and he definitely wasn't friends with the younger boys. 

"No," Natasha said. "She's just..." She shrugged. "You want me to go get her?"

Clint glanced at the clock on his dashboard. "We can give her a few minutes."

"Okay." Natasha leaned back in her seat with a sigh. "I don't know why we think this is good idea. Money, maybe."

"And Steve." Steve had talked them into working at the summer camp again, and he was the sort of person that it was difficult to say no to. Hell, he was the sort of person who could make a really bad idea sound like a really good one if he tried. Clint sighed. "I guess last summer wasn't _too_ bad."

Natasha gave him a look that told him that he was clearly out of his mind, then frowned slightly. "I guess I do not remember clearly," she said. "I remember last summer is bad, but maybe most of that is not the camp."

Right. He'd forgotten. Or... no, he hadn't forgotten, but he'd managed to push it to the back of his head. Last summer there had been two weeks where they hadn't been able to see each other while Natasha was holed up in a hotel, being protected during her uncle's trial. Last summer the circus had showed up, and with it Barney, and Clint had almost left with it and without her. Well, not really almost, but he didn't know how she remembered it, or how close he'd really come to deciding differently than he had.

"At least there won't be anything like that again," Clint said. 

"We hope."

Right. Again. There was always a chance that one of their pasts, or both, could still come up and bite them in the ass again, although he wasn't sure how. Natasha's was more likely to than his was, and even if his did, he was legally an adult now and no one held any sway over him, at least on that level, unless he allowed it.

"I do hope," Clint said. "It would nice to have a summer that's uneventful. What's that thing that people always say, that's like some kind of ancient Chinese curse or something?" Natasha looked at him like he had a screw loose for the second time in less than five minutes, but this time it made Clint smile. "Okay, so maybe they don't say it all the time in Russia. It's probably bullshit, anyway, the ancient Chinese curse part. It's probably just something that was in a fortune cookie or something. But it's like, 'May you live in interesting times,' or something like that. With 'interesting' meaning bad."

Natasha sniffed. "Then I am done with interesting. I will be happy to be bored."

She wouldn't, though. Neither would he. They both had a tendency to chafe under rules and routines. But he just nodded his agreement, and leaned in to kiss her softly.

Which was, of course, the moment that Jessica decided to come out. She wrinkled her nose as she got into the back seat. "Get a room, you two," she said, in a tone that might have been teasing or might have been serious, Clint couldn't really tell. 

Natasha flashed her a bit of sign language that was pretty much universal and kissed him again. "This is what happens when you make us wait," she said.

"I was making lunch," Jessica said. "For all of us."

"They have food there," Natasha said. "Or did you forget?" Jessica had been hired primarily to help with food preparation for the kids, who were served two meals a day at the camp – breakfast and lunch – plus snacks. 

"Just because they have it doesn't mean we want to eat it," Jessica pointed out. "There's only so much macaroni salad or whatever that I can stomach." 

Clint put the car into gear and backed out of the driveway. "Are we picking up Carol or is she driving herself?" he asked.

He'd been surprised that Carol had applied to work at the summer camp. He'd been sure that she would spend the summer working for her dad's contracting company, and he'd hoped that maybe she could get him in, too. It had to pay better than the camp, and even if it didn't, it would be far less annoying hammering in nails all day than dealing with screaming kids.

But then he'd found out that despite everything that she knew, all of the skill that she'd demonstrated in building the sets for the show and then putting together the picnic table for Mr. Fury's yard, her father wouldn't even consider putting her on his crew, just because she was a girl. Her younger brothers would all be helping him out – even the one who wasn't old enough to legally work yet, and even though at least one of them wasn't particularly interested – but not her.

He'd decided then that no matter how much better it might be, having his friend's back was more important, and he'd turned in his application for the camp. 

"Driving herself," Jessica said. "And Bobbi."

"Oh yeah." He'd forgotten that Steve had recruited Bobbi, too, although she wasn't working the entire summer. He'd tried pretty hard to recruit all of them, but Thor already had a job at another camp, one with a sports focus, and Loki was going to his theater camp again. Tony and Bruce both had internships, and so did Pepper. But half of them would be there, and Peggy, so at least Clint could console himself over the kid part of things knowing that he had at least half a dozen good co-workers.

They pulled up to the building that was the camp's base of operations and went inside. The sun was already starting to pound down, and the (very) brief relief they'd gotten over the weekend as far as the temperature was concerned was clearly a thing of the past. At least it wasn't _quite_ as sticky as it had been. 

"If you are a new employee, please come to the front desk so that we can make sure that all of your paperwork is in order," a young woman called. "If you are a returning employee, please head to the office to discuss your assignments."

Jessica shuffled off toward the front desk while Natasha and Clint made their way to the office. Steve was there, and he smiled when he saw them. "Good morning! You ready for this?"

"Always," Natasha said dryly, at the same time that Clint said, "Never," which made Steve laugh.

"I'll take that as a maybe. Nat, we were thinking of putting you primarily in arts and crafts, if that's all right? I'm sort of in charge of that area, but I'm also going to have to do some moving around, making sure that everything is running smoothly. They made me assistant director... or junior assistant director. Crazy, right? But I wanted someone I could trust."

"Is fine," Natasha agreed. "Congratulations."

"I don't get paid any more," Steve said. "Only more work."

"Ain't that how it always works?" Clint asked. 

"When you're working for a non-profit organization? Yeah, I'm pretty sure." Steve grinned at him. "You good with being assigned to sports? Say yes."

"Yes," Clint said. He wasn't sure he really had a choice, and what other options were there, anyway?

"Good, because I've got a surprise for you, and I'm pretty sure you'll like it." Steve looked around, and Clint turned his head to see what he was looking for, but there didn't seem to be anything to see. Just a few people clustered together a few feet away, just outside the office door. People he recognized from last year, so they must be waiting for their assignments, too. "I'll have to show you later," Steve said. "Anyway, it'll be a little bit before the campers start to arrive, so you two can just sort of reacquaint yourselves with the place... or if you really want to be helpful, give some of the new guys a quick tour."

They would have gotten a tour when they were interviewed, probably, but another one couldn't hurt. While they were talking to Steve, Carol and Bobbi had arrived, so once they'd double-checked that all of their forms were in order, Natasha and Clint snagged them, along with Jessica, and showed them around.

"What you will be doing?" Natasha asked. "Jessica I know is in kitchen." She'd pretty much refused to be put anywhere else; apparently kids gave her hives or something. 

"Sports," Bobbi said.

"So you're with me," Clint said. 

"I'm just a floater," Carol said. "At least for now. I go wherever I'm needed."

"That's what I did last year," Clint said. "It's not so bad."

"I figure it's all more or less the same," Carol said. "A job is a job, and kids are kids, and whether I'm trying to help them make lanyards or trying to teach them how not to get smacked in the head with a tetherball, it's still snot and scraped knees and whining." She grinned.

"I thought you _liked_ kids," Clint said.

Carol shrugged. "Sometimes. Depends on the kid."

"Well, there are some pretty obnoxious ones," Clint said.

"What's tetherball?" Jessica asked.

"The most evil, vindictive game on the planet," Bobbi said. "Basically, it's a ball – kind of like a volleyball – that's attached to a string on the top of a pole. And one person hits the ball, trying to get the string to wrap all the way around the pole, while the other person, or people, I guess, if you were doing it as teams, tries to hit it back so that it wraps around the other way. Or something. Mostly it's an excuse to see if you can make the ball hit the opposing players. I'm not sure anyone actually knows the rules."

"I think we should teach them how to play Calvinball," Carol said, grinning.

"How do you teach someone a game with no rules?" Clint asked. 

"What about Quidditch?" Jessica asked. "Isn't that a thing now?"

"Yes!" Carol's eyes lit up. "We should totally teach them how to play Quidditch."

"That's actually kind of a great idea," Bobbi agreed. "We'll have to look up how it's played when you can't actually fly, and figure out what we can use for brooms, and whether the kids can be trusted with them, but... that could totally work."

"You've created a monster," Clint told Natasha, who had finally gotten Jessica to read the Harry Potter books. He suspected that Jess had started the first one mostly to spite her parents, but then she'd sort of gotten sucked in. She'd read the first three books in their entirety in less than three days.

"You don't think is good idea?" she asked.

"I didn't say that," Clint replied. "I just never thought that Jessica I-was-raised-to-believe-that-magic-is-not-only-real-but-evil Drew would be championing a game that's supposed to be played on flying brooms."

"Jessica We're-not-all-deaf-and-fuck-them-and-their-stupid-ideas-magic-is-cool Drew can hear that you're talking about her and she doesn't appreciate it," Jessica said, but without any real ire.

"Watch what you say," he told her. "There aren't kids here now, but they take it pretty seriously if you swear around them."

"I'll be in the kitchen," she said. "They won't hear me if I swear."

"Just be careful," Clint said. He didn't want her getting herself into trouble. 

"Thanks, Dad."

He rolled his eyes. It was on her if she didn't want to listen. 

"You know, maybe we could make it bigger than just Quidditch," Bobbi said. "Maybe it's too late, considering that the campers are going to be here in less than an hour, and maybe they don't want to do any kind of competition, but wouldn't it be cool if we actually did something like a House Cup competition? Kids could earn points, and at the end the winning house got some kind of special reward?"

"What about losing points? Could they lose points for bad behavior, too?" 

"I don't see why not, but we would have to come up with a real system, unlike in the books where it seems pretty arbitrary," Bobbi said. "We don't want it to actually be rigged so that Gryffindor always wins."

"We should tell Steve," Clint said. "If you really want to do it, we should tell Steve."

"I kind of do," Bobbi said. She looked at the others. "What do you think?"

"I like it," Carol said.

" _Da,_ " Natasha said, then made a face. Clint reached out and squeezed the back of her neck, and she looked at him and rolled her eyes, but smiled. For some reason that was the most persistent word, the one bit of Russian that she just couldn't seem to shake. At least it was easily recognizable for what it was.

"Then let's do it," Clint said. "If we can figure it out, maybe we can get it started next week." He was surprised to find that he was actually kind of excited about it. He hadn't expected to be excited about anything.

"And it gives us a week to get to know the campers and figure out how to assign them into houses," Bobbi pointed out. "Unless it'll just be random."

"We'll have to figure that out, too," Clint said. 

They went to find Steve, but he was too busy dealing with the other returning employees, and then the campers started to arrive so he was busy greeting them and making sure that they formed an order line to check in. After that, the day passed by in a rush of barely controlled chaos, and they barely _saw_ Steve, much less got a chance to talk to him.

It wasn't until the campers were gone, the food all put away, soccer balls and volleyballs and every other kind of ball that you could think of returned to their rightful places, and everything but the glitter swept up (glitter was a lost cause – it would be all over everything for the rest of the summer, and the hell of it was Natasha hadn't even gotten it out for the kids to use), that they finally managed to catch him. 

"We have an idea," Carol said. 

"An idea for what?" Steve asked.

"For the summer. For a way to sort of... focus the summer, I guess," Carol said. "For lack of a better word. Like, a theme, kind of."

"We usually do weekly themes," Steve said.

"And you still can," Carol said.

"But this would be more for the summer overall, as a way to organize the campers, and as motivation and hopefully bad behavior deterrent," Bobbi picked up. 

"Okay," Steve said, sounding a little wary. "What is it?"

"Harry Potter," they announced, not quite as one.

"It started with Jessica saying one of the games that we play should be Quidditch," Carol said. "And it kind of developed from there."

"We were thinking a House Cup kind of thing," Bobbi said. "Divide the campers into houses, and they can earn points for their house, and whichever house wins gets some kind of reward at the end of the summer."

"I could try to come up with recipes to make some of the Hogwarts-type food," Jessica said. "Do an end of the summer feast."

"We can use as theme for arts and crafts," Natasha said. "Have them create magical creatures – draw them and maybe make them out of felt. Not the young ones, but older ones maybe I can teach to sew. Make house banners, things like this."

"Bobbi and I will figure out Quidditch, and we can do a tournament. We could do multiple teams for each house, based on age," Clint tossed in. "That way anyone who wants to play would get a chance. And I'm sure we can come up with other magical sports, too. Like some of the Tri-Wizard stuff, only, y'know, without the dying."

" _What?!_ " Jessica turned on him. "Who dies?"

"Oops," Clint said. He'd forgotten that she hadn't actually _finished_ the books, and she hadn't seen the movies, either.

"No one," Carol said. "No one dies. Really."

"Liar," Jessica said sourly. "Now you've got me worried."

"Be afraid," Natasha told her. "Be very afraid."

"It sounds like you've got some pretty good ideas," Steve admitted. "I'm going to have to run it by the director, of course, but... you've got me sold." He looked at them and grinned. "Of course you know what this means, right? Since this was all your idea?"

They looked at each other, foreheads furrowed in confusion and then concern as Steve grinned at them. "There's five of you, but only four of you will really be dealing with the kids on a day-to-day basis, so sorry, Jess, but..." He pointed at Carol. "Gryffindor." Bobbi. "Ravenclaw." Natasha. "Slytherin." And Clint. "Hufflepuff."

And now they were even more confused, until Steve declared, "Heads of Houses. Congratulations, guys."

Jessica grinned back at him, and at the rest of them, obviously not disappointed in the slightest that she'd been excluded from the promotion. "He's got it right," she said. "All four of you, exactly right."

They couldn't really argue, either. The assignments made sense. And even though it would almost certainly mean a lot more work than they'd originally bargained for, all of a sudden the summer was looking a little bit brighter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who missed it, I posted two deleted scenes this past week, telling the tale of what happened between Carol and Jessica: [Fireworks at Dawn](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1915704) and [These Are My Confessions](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1925118).


	56. Chapter 56

It didn't take long for them to get approval on the Harry Potter idea. The entire camp staff sat down for a meeting after the first day to discuss how the day had gone and the plans for the rest of the summer. Once the director had had her say, Steve had raised his hand and told her that some of the counselors had had an idea.

Bobbi had been the one to speak up. Of all of them, she was probably the most articulate (it was between her and Carol, Clint figured), and although it had been Jessica's idea first, she had been the one to throw out the House Cup part of things. And a lot of people, the director included, were nodding, then smiling, then grinning by the time she finished. A few concerns were expressed about how children of families who had more religious backgrounds might feel, and luckily Carol had gotten a hand on Jessica before she could say anything that she almost certainly wouldn't regret, but that could get her in trouble.

"We'll have to inform the parents," the director said. "We'll make arrangements for any of the kids whose parents don't give permission for them to participate. It's really just a team competition, so they can just be on the blue or red or yellow or green team, and anything they're not comfortable with, we'll find something else for them to do. I'll work up something tonight. The rest of you," and she looked directly at the five of them who'd started this madness in the first place, "start coming up with some ideas of how to integrate this, and how points and that sort of things will work. I want to make sure that everyone is on the same page as much as possible so that there's no playing favorites, not just with the campers but with the houses."

They looked at each other and Carol grinned. "Obviously Gryffindor is the best."

Natasha snorted. "Gryffindor is loudest, but is not best," she said. "Slytherin is best."

"Ravenclaw will outsmart you all," Bobbi said.

"While you're all fighting about it, Hufflepuff will just slowly sneak in and take it out from under you, with patience and hard work," Clint replied.

"See?" Steve said, looking at everyone else. "I told you they'd make good Heads of Houses."

It got a laugh... and a lot more work for them. 

By the middle of the week, though, they had hammered out a points system, how they were going to run the Quidditch Cup, and various other activities that they could do throughout the summer. They got approval from the director, and the buy-in of the other counselors, and on Thursday they all sat around a table and tried to figure out how to divide up the campers.

"Are we going to do the Sorting Hat routine?" Carol asked. "It seems like that might take too long to get through everyone." There were about two hundred campers total, ranging in age from five to fifteen, which meant about fifty per house. Even if they managed to get through each of them in a minute, it would still take well over an hour. 

"Are we actually going to pick what houses they go in?" Steve asked. "Wouldn't it make more sense to just have it done randomly? Like get different colored poker chips and you just draw one out of a hat to see what house you're in?"

"That might be easiest," Bobbi said. "But I feel like that might also lead to a lot of unhappy kids who don't end up in the house that they want, or don't end up in the same house as their friends. A lot of them will probably be happy no matter where they're sorted, but some of them have best friends already, and if they ended up split up, there could be tears."

"We don't want tears," Steve said. "But I would be concerned, if we let them choose, that everyone is going to want to be Gryffindor, just because that's Harry's house."

"I don't know," Bobbi said. "I certainly wouldn't choose Gryffindor. It's just not who I am. And a lot of these kids have grown up with these books and movies, and they have pretty strong feelings about where they belong."

"But they don't get to choose their house in the books," Jessica chimed in. "So I don't think it should just be their choice, either."

"Maybe we should do something like they do on most websites," Carol said. "Have them do a short quiz or something, and then we go over it and figure out where it would put them."

"Do you want to put that together and go over all of them to figure out where they belong?" Steve asked.

"I don't mind doing it," Carol said.

"All right. Then that's the plan. We'll have to carve out time to do it with the youngest kids one-on-one, or have someone go over it with a small group and just make a note of what each of the kids' answers. They can't all read yet, or at least not well enough to do this kind of thing."

"You might want to do a couple of different quizzes," Bobbi said, "depending on the age of the kids. Or at least one for the really little ones, and one for the eleven-and-up set."

"Good thinking," Carol said. "So I'll do that and we can have them take it tomorrow?"

"Right," Steve said. "That way we'll be ready to assign them on Monday morning."

"Is that going to be it, though?" Bobbi asked. "Just the quiz?"

"It might not come out even," Clint pointed out. "And again, there's the friend issue, because just because they test into a house doesn't mean their friends will."

"Not everyone is going to end up with their friends," Bobbi said.

"No, I know. I get that," Clint said. "But I feel like just like the kids in the books don't really get a choice, but what they want _is_ taken into account, I think we should look at the quizzes, which will give us an idea of where the kids should be, or want to be since usually you can guess at which answer goes to which house, and then for any of them that really seem like they'll be upset if they're separated from their friends, try to balance it... but in the end we have final say. I mean, some of us know some of the kids from last year and have a good idea of their personalities, and for the newer kids, we've still had a week to get to know them. That way we can kind of even out the numbers, make sure that every house has roughly the same number of people in it."

There were nods all around, and Carol got to work on coming up with questions that they could ask the kids to help sort them while the rest of them went over other details. It was turning out to be more work than they'd bargained on, but once they actually got underway, hopefully it would smooth out.

"Why you could not have had this idea _before_ we start?" Natasha asked Jessica.

"It wasn't my idea!" Jessica objected. "I just said Quidditch. Blame Bobbi!"

Bobbi held her hands up in surrender. "I'm not part of your little cabal," she said. "Maybe if we'd actually gotten together before the first day of camp, I _would_ have had the idea earlier."

Clint didn't think she said it to make them feel guilty, but there was a part of him that did. They had a tendency to get pretty wrapped up in themselves (and each other – in pairs and the four of them) and Bobbi wasn't wrong that they tended to forget about her sometimes. But she had other friends, and a busy schedule... right?

"There was Fourth of July," Natasha pointed out.

"But no one was talking about work then," Bobbi said. "Don't worry about it. I'm only joking."

On Friday they made sure that every kid got a chance to take the Sorting quiz, although at that point they still didn't know why their counselors were having them answer these somewhat odd questions. After lunch, Carol sat down with the results and a spreadsheet and began to sort – pun intended – things out.

After the campers were gone for the day, they all sat down again and went over the list of campers, and their results, and their known associates, and started the process of putting them into houses. It was really easy for some of them, but for other kids it was harder. They were the Slytherin among Gryffindors, or a Hufflepuff who just happened to be best friends with a Ravenclaw, and so they had to make their best guess as to who could be split up and who would hate them forever for it. The lines just weren't as clear cut as one might think. 

And then there was the issues of personality, and kids who rubbed one or the other of them the wrong way, and even though they couldn't play favorites, a few kids whose Sorting was somewhat borderline ended up in one house over another because their Head of House really wasn't sure they could deal with them all summer and keep their sanity.

Then there was Lewis.

No one wanted Lewis.

Which was why he ended up in Hufflepuff.

"I'll take him," Clint said finally. They'd been going back and forth for what felt like forever (it was probably closer to five minutes, and certainly no more than ten) trying to figure out where to put the boy, and finally he got sick of hearing the reasons why he wouldn't belong in one house or another. "That's the point of Hufflepuff, right? It's the house that's open to everyone, no matter what. So I'll take him."

So the boy's name was written on the list of campers assigned to the house of the badger, the yellow team, whatever you wanted to call it, leaving Clint with a sinking feeling in his gut that his summer had just gotten a whole hell of a lot longer.

On Friday, after lunch, they had the Sorting. It was done as efficiently as they could manage; they didn't want it to end up being a long, drawn-out process that gave the kids too much time to grumble and question. It still took a little bit for them to rearrange themselves at the tables so that they were seated by house, but for the most part they seemed excited. Even those whose parents had said they didn'twant their children participating in anything that smacked of devil worship (read: magic) were into the idea of a team competition.

They were asked to wear their team color on Monday, if they had it, and if not they would try to supply something to them. (Red and blue they figured would be easy, green a little less so, and yellow possibly the most problematic, although with the recent trend towards clothing in shades that resembled highlighters, it might not be as much of an issue as they thought.)

That weekend, they all rested, preparing themselves for what was to come on Monday. For Clint's part, he mostly just tried to learn the names of his campers, and for those he didn't know as well, he read over their files (slim folders that mostly just held their application, a copy of their medical form, and anything else that their parents thought might be useful. Some of the applications were written edge-to-edge with details, and he hoped that Lewis's would be one of them.

It wasn't. Of course it wasn't. Nothing was ever that easy. It listed his basic details, and pretty much nothing else. No explanation for his behavioral... challenges, and especially no explanation for why, although the boy could and did talk, his speech was almost entirely incomprehensible. (Sure, he was missing his two front teeth, but he wasn't the only one, and they could understand the others just fine.) No, it was something more than that, but apparently whatever it was was either undiagnosed, or Lewis's mother didn't feel it necessary to disclose.

Maybe he would have to try and corner her and ask, but Clint was pretty sure that Lewis was one of the ones who got picked up at some sort of central location and dropped off by bus. It wasn't his parent (parents? plural? the form only had one signature but that wasn't unusual even for kids that he knew had two parents...) that picked him up, so there was no chance to have a conversation.

Which meant he was just going to have a play a guessing game, or give up on knowing _why_ and just try to figure out _how_. As in, how the hell was a kid who couldn't talk going to communicate with a guy who couldn't hear all that well?

On Monday, the kids showed up wearing their house colors and naturally drifted into their groups. There were a few who hadn't managed to find anything of the appropriate color, and they were given bandanas to tie on their heads or arms or anywhere they chose to show their allegiance. 

Lewis bounced up to Clint, a beaming smile on his face, and began to chatter at him. He wasn't wearing any yellow, so Clint handed him a bandana. Lewis said something... and Clint didn't understand a word of it. Not a single one. "Sorry, bud," he said. "I didn't catch that."

So Lewis repeated it... again, and again, until finally he looked like he was about to have a meltdown. He pointed to his head and snatched the bandana from Clint, wrapping it around then letting it fall before thrusting it back into his hands.

And then Clint had the answer, and it was so simple. And so impossible, with only a few hours a day and a whole bunch of other campers to keep an eye on.

But he had to try. If he was going to stand a chance of being able to talk to this kid, even a little bit, he had to try.

"You want me to tie it on you?" Clint asked, signing the words this time, then mimed tying it on his own head for good measure.

Lewis nodded emphatically. 

_Well why didn't you say so?_ , Clint wanted to ask, but the problem was that Lewis almost certainly _had_ been saying so all along. It was just in his own personal dialect of gibberish that probably made perfect sense to him.

Clint signed the word for 'tie' again, and again until Lewis understood and repeated it. And then Clint tied the bandana onto his head, and the boy trotted off, grinning happily, to join the rest of the team. He sat a little apart from everyone else; Clint figured he probably didn't have too many friends. Who would want to be friends with someone that you couldn't understand?

Maybe this was going to be more of a project than he thought.


	57. Chapter 57

"Hey, Clint," Mr. Sullivan said, handing him a glass of water. Condensation had formed on the sides as soon as it made contact with the air, which felt saturated. Heat was one thing, but the humidity was killing him. He wished the storms that threatened on the horizon would just roll in already and cut the thickness of the air. Of course there was always the possibility that it would leave it worse than before, but he was trying to be optimistic.

"Hey," he said, turning his hearing aids back on. He'd been mowing the lawn, and he figured that his foster father had come out to pay him or something. It was one of his chores anyway, but the Sullivans paid him a little more for it than just his usual allowance, knowing that he _could_ use the time to mow someone else's lawn and make twenty bucks. The first time he'd tried to object, saying that they paid for his food and everything, but they'd insisted, and he wasn't stupid enough to keep arguing.

He took the glass and chugged half of it in one gulp, instantly regretting it as a headache formed behind his eyes until his brain thawed out again. "Thanks," he added, suddenly suspicious as Mr. Sullivan lingered there like he had something more to say. Maybe he was just being nice, bringing him a drink on a day that was, at best, oppressive. But there was something... staged in the gesture, and he suspected there was something more going on that Mr. Sullivan was hesitating to say. And the longer he hesitated, the worse Clint felt. "What's up?" he asked finally.

"Why don't you sit down?"

Clint tensed. Nothing good after came of a conversation that started with an adult asking a kid to sit down. It meant he was in trouble, or that he was about to be told something that he really didn't want to hear. "I'd rather stand," he said.

Mr. Sullivan looked at him, frowning, and then it was as if something clicked. "You're not in trouble," he said. "It's nothing bad. You've just been out here for a while, and I figured you might be tired."

It was a relief... sort of. Clint shrugged. "I'm okay," he said. "What is it?"

"I – we – just need to ask you a favor," Mr. Sullivan said. "I know that you work all week, and you earn your weekends off, but Mrs. Sullivan and I have a somewhat last minute invitation to go to a conference... workshop, retreat, I'm not sure what you want to call it, for foster parents who work with kids with special needs. You'd think they would have given us more warning, considering they know what it's like trying to get respite care when you're a foster parent, but..." He shook his head with a chuckle. "Anyway, it's not this upcoming weekend, but the one after, and we were hoping that you could look after the boys while we're gone."

Clint just stared at him for a second. "Is that... legal? I mean, can you do that?"

"We managed to find someone to do respite for the nights, so... yes. You're over the age of eighteen, and we got the approval for you to be the primary caretaker during the days. If you're interested, of course. We'll pay you what would be paid to the respite workers."

_Can you afford to do that?_ , Clint wanted to ask, but he didn't. He knew that the respite workers would be paid out of state funds, and the Sullivans would be paying him out of pocket. But they wouldn't offer if they couldn't afford to do it... right? And he didn't know how much a respite worker actually made, so maybe it wasn't that much money anyway.

"How much?" he asked, the words coming out without him meaning to. He'd meant to ask how long. 

"Not as much as you probably deserve," Mr. Sullivan said. And then he gave Clint a figure that equaled _a lot_ of lawns. 

"How long?"

"We would be leaving Friday after you get home from work. Friday night it would only be a few hours before the respite worker got here, then you'd pick back up in the morning when she – or he, but most likely she – left, you'd be in charge all day, another night off, then we'd be getting home probably mid-afternoon on Sunday."

"Can I have help?" Clint asked. "Like last time?"

"If you want to, I don't see a problem with that," Mr. Sullivan said. "We can't pay them separately, though, so they would either have to do it out of the goodness of their hearts, or you would have to split what you earned with them. And they couldn't stay overnight. They would have to go home while the respite worker was here."

"And Mrs. Sullivan's okay with it?"

"It didn't really come up, but I don't see why she wouldn't be. It worked out last time."

"Okay," Clint said. "I'll do it." He just hoped he could convince Jess and Carol to help him out. Or maybe Steve... or someone. But he was pretty sure there was no way he could manage all three of the boys alone.

"Thank you," Mr. Sullivan said, clapping him on the shoulder. "I'll let Mrs. Sullivan know."

It was only then that he realized that Mr. Sullivan had asked him because they knew that he had a better relationship with his foster father than he did with his foster mom. So really, it made sense... but he couldn't help feeling like he'd been played, at least a little bit. But he would have been an idiot to turn down the money that they were offering. He had a car to keep running, after all, and eventually he'd have to find his own place to live and pay rent and bills and all of that... which he tried not to think too much about, because it made him feel sick to his stomach.

He went to Mr. Fury's later that day, and all three of the girls were there. Now that Carol and Jessica were a thing... or most of the way to being a thing, he didn't really know the details but they were obviously back on good terms with each other... Carol was there even more than she had been before, which was to say she was pretty much there all the time. Mr. Fury didn't complain because it meant there was someone to drive Natasha and Jessica to work in the morning without him having to do it. By the end of the summer, both of the girls were hoping to have their driver's licenses, but that still left the issue of a car.

"There is no way we're sharing," Natasha said adamantly. "How that will work?"

"Whoever doesn't have another ride gets to use it," Jessica said. "You think we can each afford our own car?"

"You think that I can afford to have to cars belonging to minors on my car insurance?" Mr. Fury said. "If you get a car at all, you're going to end up sharing."

"What happens when we go away?" Natasha asked. "If we go to school in different places, then what?"

"Then you figure it out," Mr. Fury said. "I think you're a little over-eager to get into the whole car ownership business in the first place. Do you have any idea what it costs to maintain a car? Especially one that would be in the price range you can afford?"

Clint could see from Natasha's face that she didn't. He was lucky in that his car had come from Tony, and it was better than anything he ever could have afforded on his own. He hadn't had to sink a huge amount of money into it on repairs or anything, and he'd had it for almost a year now. It was just gas and routine stuff, and he did pay the Sullivans for the increase in their car insurance, having it on their policy. 

"We'll see where things stand when you actually pass your driving test," Mr. Fury said. "Until then, there's not really any point in worrying about it."

"I will pass," Natasha said. "Is Jessica you should worry about."

"Hey!" Jessica said. "I'm a good driver!"

"I'm not worried about either one of you in particular," Mr. Fury said, but Clint was pretty sure that he was lying. And with good reason, really. Clint had been in the car with them when they were driving, and Jessica had a tendency to get distracted, and Natasha to get angry at the other people on the road, and to go too fast... which was possibly a bad habit she'd picked up from him. He had no patience when it came to getting from point A to point B.

Clint cleared his throat when there was finally a break in the argument. "Speaking of which," he said, even though he wasn't speaking about anything to do with driving at all, "I need to ask you guys a favor."

They looked at him, expressions of curiosity (Carol) and suspicion (Jessica), or mixture of the two (Natasha) on their faces. 

"You remember how a while back we watched my foster brothers for a day?" he asked. Nods and sounds of assent, so he plowed on, even as everyone's face shifted a little farther on the suspicion scale. "The Sullivans asked me to help them out again... and I said yes. But it's not just for a day this time. It's for a whole weekend – except the nights – and I was hoping that you all could, uh, help me out."

"A whole weekend?" Natasha asked.

"After we spend a whole week with kids, you want us to spend the whole weekend with them, too?" Jessica said.

"You barely have contact with him," Carol pointed out. "During the week, I mean."

"I can hear them," Jessica said, "and I have to clean up the messes they make. That's plenty."

Clint thought he saw Carol roll her eyes, but either Jessica didn't catch it or decided it wasn't worth fighting over. Either way, he was grateful. "Yes," he said. "That's what I'm asking." And then he told him how much they would be paid, and even Mr. Fury's eyebrows went up. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn't a lot of money, but for a bunch of teenagers, it sure as hell wasn't nothing.

"Well _I'm_ in," Carol said. 

"You know I am," Natasha said. And with her it had probably never really been a question.

Jessica made a face. "Fine," she said. "When?"

"Two weekends from now. August 8th."

Jessica sighed. "I guess that gives us time to prepare ourselves," she said.

"It wasn't that bad last time," Carol said. "Seriously. They're just kids."

"I hate kids," Jess grumbled. 

"And yet you work at a summer camp."

"With food," Jessica countered. "I work with food."

Clint thought she was probably being a bit melodramatic about all of it; that she didn't really dislike kids as much as she claimed. And it wasn't as if his foster brothers were super young. There wouldn't be any diapers to change or anything like that. Sure, Connor still had temper tantrums sometimes, but if they could keep him on his usual routine, it would probably be all right.

"If you need anything," Mr. Fury said. "You can always call me."

Clint looked at him. "Thanks," he said. "Hopefully we won't need to."

"Hopefully you won't," he agreed. "Because I didn't say I'd be happy about it." But he flashed a smile that Clint figured meant he was joking... maybe. Seeing the principal smile at all was a little bit disconcerting.

Once they were upstairs, away from everyone else, Clint looked at Natasha and asked, _We're not making a huge mistake, are we?_

_I don't think so,_ she said. _They aren't bad kids._

_Yeah, but they've got issues,_ Clint said. 

Natasha snorted. _We all have issues. If something goes wrong, we just figure it out. I'm pretty sure four of us are smarter than three of them._

_You really think Jessica is going to be any help?_

Natasha hesitated. _I think Carol will convince her to be on her best behavior,_ she replied finally. _I think even if she doesn't want to do it, she will, because she wants to look good in front of Carol._

_We can hope, I guess,_ Clint said. 

_She's all bark and mostly no bite,_ Natasha reassured him. _I think it's habit, pushing against anything that makes her uncomfortable, or that she isn't sure she wants to do. Like she can't help herself, arguing._

_Maybe,_ Clint agreed. It had been almost a year that Jessica had been here, though. Shouldn't she be starting to get over it by now? But how long had it taken him? Wasn't there a part of him that _still_ fought against the life that he'd mostly come to accept was his, at least for the time being? Didn't his mind still rebel against going to school pretty much every morning? Work was easier, even when he knew that he would be totally over dealing with kids by the time he reached the end of the day. At least he was _paid_ for it. School just ate up hours of the day that could probably be spent doing something more productive. But he went, because that's what was expected of him.

Natasha reached out and touched his arm, her head tilted as she looked at him, her eyebrows drawn together in a frown. _Where are you?_ , she asked.

_I don't know,_ Clint admitted. _Just thinking about going back to school, I guess. How sick of it I am._

_It's only one more year,_ Natasha said. _Well, one more year of high school, then college, but that's different. That will be better._

And there it was. Even _she_ thought he would be going to college, and why did everyone just assume that? Why was that the path that everyone thought he was on? His grades were mediocre, and what the hell would he study anyway? He didn't know what he wanted to be when he grew up, but he knew that he probably wasn't qualified to be much of anything besides a landscaper or a construction worker. He just wasn't that smart.

But he didn't argue with her, because he didn't want to argue. He was tired of arguing, even when it was only in his own head, and once a few months ago with his guidance counselor. Because if he got into it with her now, if he told her that he didn't actually plan to go to college, what would happen then? Would she try to convince him? Or would she just finally realize that he wasn't good enough for her and that would be the end? 

It wasn't a chance he was willing or ready to take. _I hope so,_ he said. 

She laid her hand on his arm again and squeezed. _Let's just forget all of that,_ she said, like she could read his mind, almost. _For now, anyway._ Which was kind of the opposite of reassuring, but she was trying, right? 

_What do you want to do?_ , he asked.

_If you're not sick of them, some of the people from work are planning a get-together tonight,_ she said. _A bowling party._

Right. He'd heard about that. They all had, because even if Steve wasn't the one orchestrating it, he'd been vocal in his support. Something about how they all needed a chance to decompress and have some fun and bond.

_I've never bowled in my life,_ Clint said. _Unless you count Wii bowling._

_Neither have I,_ Natasha said. _We can be terrible together._

Going out, being in a group... well, at least it would mean not having to think about the rest of his life for a little while. _You're on._


	58. Chapter 58

The kids were having their quiet time after lunch (it wasn't nap time, because the kids didn't actually need a nap... although occasionally a few of them actually fell asleep with their heads down on the lunch tables) while the adults (or what passed for adults) took a breather and regrouped for the afternoon. Clint could feel tension rolling off of Natasha in waves, and finally he nudged her and nodded toward the bathroom, a little outbuilding a few hundred yards away.

She cocked her head, and he raised his eyebrows, then got up and headed in that direction. A minute later she followed, and if anyone noticed (or cared) they didn't say anything about it. It wasn't like they were prone to public displays of affection; no one was going to assume they were sneaking off to make out or something. Well, probably no one would.

_What's wrong?_ , Clint asked, when they were safely far enough away that... And then it occurred to him that no one could eavesdrop on them anyway. No one could overhear, because there was nothing _to_ hear, and even if they saw the entire conversation it would just be a bunch of wild gesticulation to them. And yet they still weren't in the habit of signing in front of anyone. It still felt like a secret. 

_Nothing,_ Natasha said, but the look on her face told him that she didn't actually expect him to believe it. She obviously didn't believe it herself.

_Liar,_ he replied, his expression softening the accusation.

Natasha sighed, and even if he hadn't had his hearing aids turned on, he would have known it. It wasn't just her breath, it was her whole body. _I'm sick of this,_ she said finally. _Not of the camp, that's all right, but... everything. This life. This being expected to be here, be there, answer to this person or that person... I hate it._

Clint laughed. Not loud or long, but a laugh nonetheless. _It's like you can read my mind,_ he said. 

She looked up at him, just studying him for a moment, then nodded. _Let's not,_ she said. _This weekend, let's just... not. You're eighteen, and I'm... close enough. Let's just pick up and go somewhere, and if people don't like it, too bad._

It was a bad plan, if it could even be called a plan, and Clint knew it. He also knew that it was the best idea he'd heard in a long time. They would get in trouble. Hell, there was a chance that they would have the cops sent after them, or that when he got back, the Sullivans would decide they were done with him and send him packing.

He had to be the voice of reason here, but he wasn't feeling very reasonable. Last night at dinner Connor had had a meltdown that had lasted for hours, or at least it felt that way. Devon had flipped out, apparently sick of it, and sick of them, and sick of everything – it was a temper tantrum he threw at least once a week these days, usually more. And Kevin had been bouncing off the walls in reaction to both, until Clint finally herded him outside to kick a ball around, just to escape the noise and hopefully have the kid burn off some energy before it all escalated more.

The idea of spending a weekend in that house was more than he could handle. The fact that he was going to be spending the following weekend actually in charge of the younger boys... he was really, really regretting saying yes to that. But he couldn't take it back now.

So he'd earned himself a day or two away from it all, right? They couldn't get pissed at him for wanting a break.

And staying at Mr. Fury's wasn't a break like it used to be. With Jessica there, and Carol pretty much all of the time, there was always something going on, and although it was somewhat less stressful than dealing with a bunch of kids with issues... it was still a bunch of kids with issues.

_We should probably tell them we're going,_ Clint said slowly, grudgingly. _Or we're going to come back to a shitstorm._

_Doesn't that defeat the purpose?_ Natasha asked. He could see a frown forming. _What's the point of running away from all of it when you tell them exactly where to find you?_

_I didn't say tell them **where** ,_ Clint pointed out. _I just said tell them **that** we're going. And not ask. Just tell. Say we need a break and we're going away for the weekend, and... we'll have our cell phones on or whatever if they need to reach us, but we're going and they're not stopping us._

Natasha snorted. _And you think that will work?_

_I think they don't get a choice._

She shook her head. _Never mind. It doesn't matter._ She started to walk away.

Clint reached out and caught her arm, stopping her, and she turned back, staring at him, then down at where his fingers held tight, digging in just a little. He let go. _I'm sorry._

She didn't say anything, but she didn't walk away, either. 

_I'm sorry,_ he said again. _'Tasha, I didn't—_

_I know,_ she said. _I know. I'm sorry too. I just..._ Natasha sighed, another huge exhalation that could be seen through her entire body. _I want my life back. Or... I want to have a life, a chance I never had. It was supposed to – it was all supposed to be better, after the trial. It was supposed to be over, then, and I would be free. But... is this freedom?_

_I'm not sure there's a such thing as freedom when you're a kid,_ Clint said. _Not really. You still have to play by everyone else's rules._

_But don't you hate it? You could have... you could have left, gone with your brother, gone back to to the circus and you would have been free of all of this. You had a choice, and you chose this. Why?_

Clint looked at her, just looked, for a long moment before asking, _Do you really need to ask why?_

She didn't answer, and he couldn't read her face. _I'll talk to you later,_ she said after what was probably not more than a minute but felt like an eternity. And then she went back to the pavilion where the kids were being released to their afternoon activities.

Clint stared after her until he finally had to shake himself loose of the thoughts running through his head. Did she really not know? Could she not figure out that he'd stayed for her? Because she needed him, and...

... and maybe she didn't anymore, and maybe that was the point. Maybe that was the problem. Maybe this was the beginning of the end.

It was a long afternoon, and at the end of it he couldn't find her. He finally headed for his car, figuring maybe she'd gotten a ride with Carol. He checked his phone, but there were no messages telling him that he didn't need to wait for her. But how long should he wait?

He was so lost in his head, trying to figure out whether he was sad or pissed off or something else entirely, that he didn't notice that she was already in his car until he'd sat down and was about to put the key in the ignition. He jumped, his heart jamming up into his throat before plummeting down into his gut, then returning to its rightful place, where it slammed against his ribcage... or at least that's what it all felt like.

"Damn it, Natasha!"

"I'm sorry," she said, but she didn't sound (or look) sorry. _I told him._

_Told who? What?_

_Mr. Fury. I told him that we were going away for the weekend. He told me to call him and tell him where when we got there._

Clint just blinked, not sure how to react to that. _Will you?_ , he asked finally.

_Tell him?_ She shrugged. _I guess I have to, or, like you said, we'll come home to a shitstorm. Anyway, I'm pretty sure that he has your license plate number, so he could have the cops looking for us or something if I don't._ She smiled, a quick quirk of her lips that made him want to kiss her even though, yeah, maybe he was a little bit angry.

But why? Because she couldn't make up her mind? Because she ran hot and cold? It wasn't really her fault, was it? Her life had been a mess for so long, she had every right to be a little... mercurial, right? It wasn't like he was always the most stable person, and he'd had things a hell of a lot easier than she had.

_I have to tell the Sullivans, too,_ he said. 

_And we should probably go home to pack some stuff anyway,_ Natasha added.

_Who needs stuff?_ , he asked. _I thought you just wanted to run._

_People who don't want to spend their hard-earned paychecks on clothing so that they don't have to wear the same pair of underwear all weekend,_ Natasha said. _And I definitely don't._

He laughed. _Fair enough. My place first, or do you want to get a ride with Carol and I'll pick you up in a little bit?_

_My place first,_ Natasha said, _and you wait in the getaway car._

Which made him laugh again. _All right. Your wish is my command._

Natasha was in and out of the house in less than fifteen minutes. She came back with a backpack and nothing else, but it was big enough to hold enough for a weekend, he figured. All she really needed was a couple of changes of clothes and basic bathroom stuff, right? She slid into the passenger's seat of his car. "Drive," she commanded, like they really did need to make a getaway, and so Clint drove, even though he didn't see anyone trying to chase after them.

He knew that it wasn't going to be quite so easy at the Sullivans', especially if he got stopped by Mrs. Sullivan. Mr. Sullivan... maybe he would understand. So his best bet was to make sure that he ran into his foster father first. 

Trouble was, he might not even be home yet.

But apparently whatever was out there in the universe, if there was anything at all, was smiling on them, because when he got home Mr. Sullivan's car was in the driveway, and the minivan that Mrs. Sullivan drove was not. 

_Do you want me to come in?_ , Natasha asked.

_Probably better if you don't,_ Clint replied. _I'll be out in a few._

It occurred to him as he slipped inside that he probably didn't even really need to tell them that he was going anywhere other than Mr. Fury's house, which they were pretty used to by now. It wouldn't be the first time that he'd spent the entire weekend there. But there was always the chance that something would happen and they would call there, and if Mr. Fury didn't know to lie... or even if it occurred to him to do so and he chose not to... then Clint would be up shit creek without a paddle.

So with his own backpack stuffed with the things he thought he'd need, he went into the garage, where he found Mr. Sullivan sifting through the contents of a box, looking for something that he didn't seem to be finding. "We really need to get this place organized," he said, looking up as Clint came in. "Maybe a project for a weekend. Money's... well, there would be money in it for you."

"Not this weekend," Clint said. "I'm not going to be here this weekend."

"Where are you going?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

"I don't know yet," Clint said. "But somewhere. Me and Natasha. We need to get away."

Mr. Sullivan's eyebrows went up. "Any particular occasion?" he asked, deceptively calm.

"It's our anniversary," Clint lied, but in saying it, he realized that although it wasn't their anniversary (he still wasn't completely sure when he ought to count that from, but he figured Valentine's Day was a safe enough bet, and easy to remember), it was _an_ anniversary, and maybe that's what had Natasha so... spooked, for lack of a better word.

One year since the trial. One year since the verdict. One year, and she still felt like a prisoner when she was supposed to be free. He owed her a chance to feel like she was, even if it was only for a few days.

"But you don't know where you're going?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

"It was kind of a last minute decision that we wanted to go away," Clint said. "We'll figure it out. Drive until someplace looks good."

"And then what?" Mr. Sullivan asked. "You know that most places won't rent a hotel room to anyone under the age of twenty-one, right?"

No. Clint hadn't known that, and of course Natasha hadn't either. Why would she know? And they probably didn't actually _want_ to stay anywhere seedy enough to bend the rules for them. Which meant... what? Staying in his car? There were worse things in life than that, even if it wasn't ideal.

"We'll figure it out," Clint said. "We're resourceful."

Mr. Sullivan shook his head slightly. "I don't doubt that you are. Just... call if you need anything, all right? And stay out of trouble."

_That's it?_ , Clint thought, just barely managing to keep the words from actually passing his lips. _That's all the fight he's going to put up?_ "We will," he said. "Thanks." He turned to go.

"Wait," Mr. Sullivan said, and Clint turned. "Do you have money?"

"We just got paid."

"Here." He pulled out his wallet and handed Clint a couple of bills. "Just in case. If you don't use it, you can give it back at the end of the weekend... but I'm not expecting any change."

Clint shoved the money into his pocket without counting it. Don't look a gift horse in the mouth and all that. "Thank you," he said again. He turned to leave a second time, and this time it was Mr. Sullivan's hand that stopped him.

"Does Mr. Fury know you're going?" his foster father asked.

"Yeah."

"Good," Mr. Sullivan said. "Both of you stay safe."

The word felt loaded with all kinds of meanings, but once Clint nodded, Mr. Sullivan let him go, so whatever he was trying to convey, apparently Clint had reassured him that he understood it. And he did. All he had ever really wanted for Natasha was for her to be safe. All he'd fought for for the past almost two years was to get her to a place where she wasn't constantly under threat, and keep her there. That wasn't about to change now.

He went back out to the car, where Natasha was fiddling with the radio dial. She looked up at him, trying to conceal her worry. _I was starting to think you were never coming out._

_I just had to tell Mr. Sullivan we were going,_ he reassured her. _He said to call if we needed anything._ He didn't tell her about the potential hotel issue. Although he didn't really believe in a higher power, it felt like this trip, ill-advised as it might have been, was getting the seal of approval from something somewhere, and he actually started to believe, as much of a mess as their lives – and his life in particular – often were, that maybe this would work out.

"Which way?" he asked as they approached the highway.

Natasha considered for a moment, and then said, "North."

So north they went, and then east, and they drove until they realized that they'd basically run out of country. Sure, they could have driven farther north, into even more of the middle of nowhere than they already were, but they'd hit the coast of Maine, and a town that looked like it was probably meant for tourists, at least in the summer, and it seemed like as good a place to stop as any, and better than a lot.

"We should find a place to stay," Clint said. 

Natasha didn't object, so he began to drive up the main street, then down a smaller street until he found a little... not a motel, but not anywhere fancy that had a sign lit up that said there was a vacancy. He pulled into the parking lot and they approached the building that was designated as the office. 

When the woman behind the desk asked for ID, Clint cursed himself for not having a fake one. He was sure if he'd thought of it at some point, he could have acquired one easily enough; even if he didn't have connections, well... he knew Tony Stark, so he had connections. But he hadn't thought of it, since he'd never felt the need to buy himself alcohol. So he handed over his license, which told the world that he was under 21, and the woman looked at him and smiled apologetically. "I'm sorry, but—"

He didn't wait for her to finish. He just started talking, pouring on the charm and telling her all about how they'd just graduated high school and how it was their anniversary and they'd wanted to get away to celebrate but their reservation at another place had fallen through – some kind of booking snafu, he wasn't sure – and they'd come all this way and he hated to have to turn around and drive back five hours to spend the weekend at home, and...

And he saw her softening, and although she looked like she was questioning her own judgment, she handed them a key with a room number on the keychain. They both stayed quiet until they were safely in the room, not wanting to somehow jinx their good fortune. Once the door was shut behind them, though, they both let out the breaths they'd been holding and burst into laughter.

_I had no idea you could be such a charmer,_ Natasha teased.

_I'm a carney,_ Clint said. _I could sell ice to an eskimo._

In response, Natasha only kissed him, and there didn't seem to be much else to say for a while.

In the morning, they headed for the beach. It was still early; it hadn't begun to fill in with people yet. As they approached the water, Natasha's steps dragged slower and slower until she finally just stopped. _I've never seen the ocean,_ she signed. _Not like this._

_Neither have I,_ Clint admitted. _It's... Okay, you're going to think I'm an idiot, but... it's big. Huge._

_Not stupid,_ Natasha replied. _It looks like it could swallow the entire world._

It did. They moved with caution, like it was a wild animal, possibly injured, that they were approaching, rather than just water. Because it _wasn't_ just water. It was water that seemed to live and breathe... and not care. They were just another thing for it to swallow up, if they weren't careful.

They reached the edge and Natasha took a step forward, letting the waves lap at her toes... and instantly retreated. _It's **cold**!_

Clint took a step forward, and did the same dance step back as soon as the water touched his skin. Cold didn't even cover it. It was icy, and the touch of it was enough to make his bones ache. He couldn't imagine going any deeper into it.

But what was the point of going to the ocean if you didn't go _in_ the ocean? They'd come all this way. He wasn't going to force the issue, though. This was Natasha's trip, mostly, and for now she seemed content to just stare out into the waves.

Later, though, after they'd walked around the town a bit, she must have arrived at the same conclusion that he had: they'd come all this way, and cold as it was, the air was hot and sticky, and maybe, just maybe, the water would be a relief. So they changed into bathing suits that they had to buy, because they didn't know they were going to end up on the beach when they set out, so they hadn't packed them, and plunged into the water, not stopping even as the cold stole the breath from them. 

Natasha reached out and grabbed Clint's hand as the first wave hit them, rocking them back on their heels because they weren't prepared, and she held on tighter as it rushed back out and another approached. It took them a minute to coordinate themselves with the tide, so that they bobbed with it instead of trying to fight it. And then a bigger wave came and doused them both, pushing him into her arms, and she gasped and laughed and held him tight.

_This is the best bad idea I've ever had,_ she signed, when perhaps a quarter of an hour they retreated back to the sand, unable to take the cold any longer. 

Clint couldn't argue, so he didn't even try. He just kissed her until they were both warm again.


	59. Chapter 59

"Thanks guys," Clint said. "You're lifesavers." 

Carol shrugged. "What are friends for, right?"

"Does spaghetti sauce come out of clothing? Ever?" Jessica asked, staring down at the spot – okay, more than a spot, more like a blob – of sauce that stained the front of her shirt. She'd been stirring the pot of sauce when Kevin came rocketing past, knocking into her elbow and causing the spoon to go flying straight at her. Clint had offered her a clean shirt to put on, figuring maybe if they washed it right away it wouldn't stain, but Jessica had declined. He thought maybe she wanted to make him feel guilty about asking them to be there in the first place, but it hadn't really worked. As far as he figured, she ought to be pissed at Carol, not him. He'd just asked. It was Carol who had accepted, and Jess had decided based on that that she would help out. She hadn't done it for _him_.

"It will come out," Natasha said. "Stop whining."

"I'm not whining," Jessica said. "Believe me, we all know the difference by now."

"It wasn't _that_ bad," Carol said.

"It kinda was," Clint said. "Sorry. He doesn't like when Mrs. Sullivan goes away. It throws off his routine, and then..." He shrugged. They were lucky that Connor hadn't had a complete meltdown. They were lucky that he'd restricted himself to whining and sulking. But he didn't think saying that out loud would do much good, and he wanted – _needed_ \- them to come back the next day, so better to just let it go.

"It's okay," Carol said. "But we should get going." 

Clint glanced at the clock and sighed. "Yeah," he agreed. It was nine-thirty, and the relief worker was coming at ten, and the girls had to be gone by then so that they didn't get in trouble. Even though the Sullivans had given their permission, having three teenage girls in the house with a teenage boy in charge and the three younger ones upstairs in bed... it might not look good. 

_Are you sure you don't want me to just stay upstairs?_ , Natasha asked. _I could. As long as I stay in your room until she leaves in the morning, she won't know the difference._

It was tempting. It was _really_ tempting. The woman who was coming was only scheduled to be there until six in the morning, leaving Clint to take care of breakfast and everything else when the boys woke up, which he wasn't sure he could handle alone, considering that his own natural inclination was to sleep long past when the younger boys thought it was time to be up and about. Connor would expect breakfast at exactly seven-thirty (since it wasn't a school day, or a camp day, they'd convinced him that he didn't have to eat at the ass-cracked of dawn, at least) and Kevin would probably be up and bouncing off the walls by that point as well, and if he didn't get his meds it would be a disaster. Having Natasha here would make it easier; at least he wouldn't have to deal with it alone. Four eyes were better than two, and even if they wouldn't outnumber them, the odds would be a bit more even.

"Come on," Jess said. "We need to go."

_It's all right,_ Clint replied finally. _I'll be all right._

_Are you sure?_ , Natasha asked. 

_No,_ he admitted. _But we should probably do this as by-the-book as we can, if we ever want a chance at you coming over again._

She nodded, and he couldn't read the expression on her face. But she hugged him before letting herself be dragged out the door, so she probably wasn't mad. If she was, there wasn't a whole hell of a lot that he could do about it.

The relief woman showed up at exactly ten, ringing the doorbell like she didn't know that there were kids sleeping inside. Clint cursed and went to answer it, hoping that she hadn't managed to wake Connor up. The other two would just go back to sleep, but Connor... heaven help them if he decided to take the interruption of his sleep personally.

Clint stepped aside to let her in. She was a short woman, round, with a... not exactly grumpy expression, but the look of someone who was terminally unimpressed. She had a bag in one hand, one of those ugly guilted ones in some godawful floral pattern. It was stuffed with magazines and balls of yarn, and Clint thought he spotted one of those cheap romance novels with the woman on the front with her boobs almost spilling out of her top, which was being ripped off by a man in an unbuttoned shirt with long flowing hair. 

She looked around and immediately headed for the sofa, plopping down on it. "Which one are you?" she asked.

He could fuck with her. He could pretend that he didn't hear her. Hell, he could taking his hearing aids out and then he really _wouldn't_ hear her, and then what would she do? Just ignore him? She didn't seem overly concerned about much, but then the kids were asleep so why did she need to be?

"Clint," he said finally. 

"And what's your problem?"

His eyebrows shot up, not sure that he'd heard her right. but she wasn't looking. She was flipping through a magazine. He wasn't sure whether she actually wanted an answer, or if she was just asking because he was still standing there. He turned to go, and maybe the floor creaked or something because then she looked up. "Hey," she said. "Are you deaf or something? I asked you what your issue is. All you kids have issues, right? That's what's the deal with this house?"

He suppressed a smirk, just barely. "Yes," he said, signing at the same time. "I'm deaf."

She peered at him more closely. "You don't sound deaf."

"I didn't go deaf 'til not that long ago," he said. He only knew what she meant from watching videos of actual deaf people, where some of them sometimes spoke, and their voices were often thick and muddled. 

"Huh." She turned her attention back to her magazine, and Clint sighed because it made it twice as hard for him to have any kind of conversation if he couldn't see the other person's face. "What's wrong with the other ones?"

"Nothing," he said. "There's nothing wrong with any of us. What's wrong with you?"

And suddenly he had her attention again. "I don't have to put up with your attitude," she said. 

"Neither do I," Clint told her. "You're the one talking about problems and things being wrong with people, like we're somehow broken. We ain't broken. Connor's autistic spectrum, Kevin's ADHD, and Devon's just pissed off all the time, far as I can tell, but we ain't broken. And anyway, they're asleep now, probably still will be when you leave, so why don't you just go back to your magazine like you obviously want to. I got shit covered."

With that, he did leave, because the last thing he wanted to hear was any response she might have. Where did they _find_ this woman? Weren't foster parents actually supposed to give a shit? But he remembered a few of the boys at the place he'd been before here talking about different houses they'd been in, and even though he didn't always feel like it, he knew that he was pretty lucky with where he'd ended up, and so were Natasha and Jessica. It could be _a lot_ worse.

He shut himself in his room and turned on his laptop, sending a text to Natasha to come online. Once he had her in video chat, he told her about the relief person who'd come to quote-unquote help. _I guess beggars can't be choosers and all that,_ he said. _But if she's able to come stay here overnight, I guess that means she doesn't actually have any foster kids of her own._

_Or maybe she has a husband who's looking after them,_ Natasha suggested.

_I can't imagine anyone wanting to marry someone that cranky,_ Clint said.

Natasha shrugged. _What time do you want us to come back tomorrow?_

_I wish you hadn't left,_ Clint admitted. _I should have let you hide._

_You should have,_ Natasha agreed with a smile. _When are you going to learn that I'm always right?_

Clint snorted. _I think that might be overstating things **just** a little._ When she bit her lip, obviously fighting back a smile, he wished that he could reach out and touch her face, draw it from between her teeth, kiss her. Yeah, he was an idiot for letting her go. _As early as you can,_ he said, to answer her earlier question. _As early as you can get Jess out of bed._

Natasha rolled her eyes. _I'm wondering if the possibility of cooking breakfast for an appreciative audience will get her out of bed earlier,_ she mused. 

_Blueberry pancakes?_

_I can ask._

_Right now?_

_I don't want to let it get much later. They might fall asleep... or something..._ Natasha gave him a look that clearly said that whatever they might get up to that wasn't sleeping wasn't anything that she wanted to interrupt. Clint tried not to think about it at all. It just felt weird. _Anyway, you should sleep. You have to be up when the Wicked Witch of the West leaves, right?_

_It's almost worse than a school day,_ Clint grumbled. 

_So go to sleep. I'll see you in the morning._ She kissed her fingers, then touched the to the screen. He did the same, even though it wasn't enough, and sighed when the screen went black.

He slept like crap. He kept waking up in a panic, afraid that something had happened, that the woman who was supposed to be looking after them had up and disappeared, that the house was burning down, that the boys were going to get into trouble or get hurt and he would sleep right through it. He ended up putting in one hearing aid and sleeping with the other ear pressed into the pillow, hoping that he might at least catch anything catastrophic.

Morning came too early, but thankfully the girls came with it, and by the time the boys got up – well, Connor and Kevin, Devon was still very much asleep – Jessica already had the first set of pancakes ready on plates. She looked way too happy and awake for as early as it was, and it made Clint even grouchier than he already was... although he felt somewhat better about the whole situation once he had his own stack of pancakes in front of him.

It took a while, but finally the batter was gone and everyone had eaten, including Jessica and Carol, who had waited until Jess was done cooking to eat so that Jess wouldn't be eating alone. Kevin looked longingly at her plate. "Are you _sure_ there's no more?" he asked.

"I'm sure," she said. 

"But there's some right there!" He pointed to the plate on the counter.

"Those are for Devon," she said.

"But he's not even _awake_!"

"So? That doesn't mean he shouldn't get to eat when he _does_ wake up," Jessica said. "Maybe he'll just have pancakes for lunch."

"That's not how _Mom_ does it," Kevin protested. 

"And I'm not your mom," Jessica told him. 

Carol intervened before things could get heated. "How would you feel if you missed breakfast, and you woke up later and found out that everyone else had had pancakes but you didn't get any?"

_I would think maybe I should wake up earlier,_ Natasha signed, and Clint put a hand over his mouth, fighting back a laugh and hoping that Kevin wasn't as much of a smartass as Nat. 

Kevin sighed. "I wouldn't be very happy."

"No, you wouldn't," Carol said. "And we don't want Devon to be unhappy, so we're saving some for him."

"He's _always_ unhappy," Kevin said. 

"Yeah," Connor said. "Always."

"Well maybe he won't be once he's had some pancakes," Carol said. "Why don't you two go wash up? If you're good, maybe we can go to the park later."

Kevin cheered, but Connor looked dubious. "I don't like the park," he said. "There's too many people."

"Go wash up anyway," Clint said.

Devon didn't sleep all the way until lunch, but it was pretty close. And Jess had been right, keeping some pancakes aside, because when he saw the dishes, he looked ready to ramp up into one of his rages (which weren't entirely unlike Connor's tantrums, but considering he was going to be a freshman next year, the word tantrum probably didn't apply anymore) until he saw that they hadn't forgotten for him. It was pretty hard to be angry when you had a stack of the world's best (or so Jessica claimed) blueberry pancakes in front of you.

They went to the park that afternoon, and Devon went along with a minimum of grumbling, which was good because Clint didn't know what he was going to do if his foster brother had decided to be an asshole about it. Someone could have stayed behind with him, maybe, but the idea of dividing up the group didn't really appeal.

Unfortunately, the peace didn't last, because Connor got pushed by another kid on the playground because he refused to get off the swings and there were people waiting, and before any of them could get there to intervene, Connor was on top of the kid, slapping at him and screaming, until Clint yanked him off.

"I am so fucking sick of this shit," Devon growled as they manhandled him down the sidewalk to get him home. "It doesn't matter what we're doing, where we are, this little asshole thinks that the world revolves around him and ruins everything."

"YOU CAN'T SAY THOSE WORDS!" Connor shrieked. "YOU CAN'T CALL ME NAMES. MOM SAYS—"

"She ain't _my_ fucking mother," Devon snarled at him. "Just because she does everything for you probably including wiping your ass—"

"YOU CAN'T SAY ASS!" Connor shouted, right as a woman with her two small children passed them. She shot a glare at Clint, and he wanted to flip her off but he didn't. 

"No one can say ass," Clint said. "Got it? No one says ass, or any other word that isn't allowed on primetime television."

When they finally got back to the house and Devon stomped upstairs and slammed the door to his room, Clint couldn't really blame him. Trouble was, Devon shared a room with Kevin, and Kevin wanted to get something from the room and Devon wouldn't let him in, which led to another screaming match (at least this one was inside, although possibly loud enough for the neighbors to hear) and it pretty much just kept going downhill from there. By the time everyone was in bed for the night and the girls gone (seconds before the relief worker arrived) Clint was completely and totally over it. And by 'it', he meant everything.

That night he didn't have any trouble falling asleep. He welcomed the nightmares that it brought; anything would be better than the day he just had.

Once again, morning came way too quickly, and he dragged himself out of bed when his alarm went off to make sure that he was awake when the relief worker left. He didn't trust her not to just up and leave with all of them still sleeping, and then what would happen if one of the boys woke up? He hadn't figured out with the girls when they were coming back over, and he wouldn't really blame them if they decided not to come over at all. He didn't think they would do that to him, but there was always a chance. 

But they showed up, looking tired and wary, and Jessica got to work on breakfast again. "I'm not making pancakes," she yawned. "Oatmeal?"

"Connor won't eat oatmeal," Clint said. "He doesn't like the texture. Kevin will eat anything, and Devon..." He shrugged. "He'll probably sleep through it and he can just make his own when he gets up." They'd been nice once, and where had it gotten them?

"Just do eggs," Natasha suggested. "Is easy, and they can have how they want. Eggs, toast..."

Jessica nodded and looked in the refrigerator. "Except there's not enough eggs," she said. 

"I'll go to the store," Carol said. "Anything else?"

"Milk," Jessica said. "Just in case."

"Juice?"

Jess picked up the carton and shook it. "Pretty full."

"Got it. Be right back."

Both Connor and Kevin were up before Carol got back, but they had enough eggs to make their breakfast, so they only had to wait for their own. 

"Are we gonna do anything fun today?" Kevin asked around a mouthful of eggs. 

"No," Clint said. "Did anyone have any fun yesterday?"

"I did!" Kevin protested. 

"Yeah, well, no one else did. You'll have to figure out your own fun here. I'm not taking you guys anywhere." 

Kevin sulked, but at least he didn't pitch a fit, and if Connor minded not going anywhere, he didn't say anything... until he remembered church. "What about church?" he asked. "It's Sunday."

"No church," Clint said. "It's canceled. Because it's summer."

"We go to church in the summer," Connor said. "We went last week. And the week before, and the week before, and—"

"It's only canceled this week," Clint said. "God's on vacation."

Connor looked perplexed, but it shut him up. Clint didn't dare look at the girls, because he knew if he did one (or more likely all) of them would lose it, and it would be all over. So he turned his attention to getting dishes in the dishwasher.

No one knew anything was wrong until mid-morning, when Clint finally sent Kevin to wake up Devon. He wasn't really supposed to be allowed to sleep through the day, because then he wouldn't sleep at night, so he would be awake in his room and that would keep Kevin awake, and Kevin without enough sleep was... well, no one wanted to have to deal with that, because it made him more hyper and that was just ugly.

Kevin came downstairs. "He's not there," he announced.

Clint looked at him. "What do you mean, he's not there?"

"He's not in his bed. It's just a bunch of pillows under the covers."

"F—are you sure he's not just in the bathroom?"

"Nope. Bathroom door is open, and he _never_ leaves the door open."

"Was he there when you woke up?"

Kevin shrugged. "Dunno. Didn't look."

"Right. Why don't you go outside and kick the ball around a little bit? Mr. Sullivan set up that goal for you, right?"

"Yeah."

"Go knock yourself out. Not literally." Because that was the last thing he needed.

Once Kevin was outside, and Connor was distracted playing some game with Carol, Clint went upstairs to check on Devon... but Kevin hadn't been wrong. He wasn't in his bed. He wasn't in the bathroom. He wasn't anywhere. And of course he hadn't left a note or anything. He was just gone.

"Fuck."

Natasha was behind him, he could feel her there even without looking. "Where do you think he went?"

"I have no fucking clue," Clint said, "but he's been gone for hours now already. If he snuck out last night... he could have almost a twelve hour lead." It probably wasn't _quite_ that bad, because he doubted that he'd taken off right at ten, but midnight or one still gave him nine, ten hours to disappear, and that was bad enough.

But when he said he didn't have a clue, that wasn't one hundred percent true. There was a chance he knew where Devon might have gone... but only in general terms. Specifics... not so much. "He might have gone to find his mother," he said. "She's been trying to get custody back, y'know? And every time he goes on a visit there, he comes up more pissed off, more messed up... but also more determined to leave here. Telling the Sullivans they're not his real parents, that kind of thing. Telling them that he wanted to be back with his real mom, because she doesn't make him do chores, she doesn't give him a bedtime, she doesn't make him share a room, whatever."

"So you think he went there?"

"Maybe. I don't know where else he would go."

"Where she lives?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "But maybe... maybe it's written down somewhere. Except I don't know if when he goes on visits they actually take him to his mom's place, or if they meet in some kind of neutral place and hand him over."

"Like drug deal?"

"Kinda."

She wrapped her arms around herself. "Why adults always forget that children are people, not things?"

"I don't know," Clint said, and it struck him then that Devon was only a year younger now than Natasha had been when he'd met her, or close enough. But Devon seemed so young to him, and she never had. And now he had run away, but he'd spent most of his life more or less safe, and what did he know about the world? 

Maybe more than Clint realized. 

"How we are going to find him?" Natasha asked.

"We should probably call the cops and have them deal with it," Clint said, even though he knew that they wouldn't. He had to put it out there, because he knew that that was what he was supposed to say, and what he was supposed to do. But if he did, there was no way that the Sullivans wouldn't be notified, and they would freak out. He wasn't even that concerned about them being angry at him for losing Devon; _technically_ it hadn't happened on his watch. He was more concerned about how it would reflect on them, and what DSS might do if they found out that they'd left three foster kids in the care of their oldest foster son, and that one of the kids had taken off while they were away, regardless of who had actually been in charge at the time, because it had taken him so long to even notice.

"Probably," Natasha agreed, and he knew that she knew that wasn't going to happen. "Where do we start to look?"

They ransacked every stack of papers they could find, looking for something that might give some indication of where Devon's mother might live, and found nothing. There was one file cabinet, though, that was locked, and Clint kept coming back to it. If they were going to keep any kind of file on the kids that they were looking after, wouldn't they want to keep it locked up so the kids couldn't get in it? 

Luckily, locks didn't really get in his way much. It took a few minutes of fiddling, but he managed to get it open. "Bullseye," he said, and flipped through until he found the file that held apparently everything the Sullivans had about Devon. There was stuff like his social security card, immunization records, all of that stuff that they might need, but there was also paperwork from DSS, and in it Clint found a copy of a petition from Devon's mother for visitation rights – or an agreement, or something – and on it it listed a last known address.

"Here," he said, handing the paper to Natasha. "We start here."

Trouble was, 'here' was an hour away, and the clock was ticking. "I need you to watch the younger boys," he told Carol and Jess. 

"Are we...?" Carol stopped. "Okay. We've got it." 

"We'll be back in a couple of hours." _Hopefully before the Sullivans get home,_ but he didn't say that part. He just got in the car, and Natasha punched the address into the GPS on her phone, and they were on their way.

"What if she's not there?" Natasha asked when they'd already been on the road for half an hour. 

"Then we ask whoever _is_ if they knew where she went," Clint said. "What else can we do?"

Natasha nodded and was quiet again, but a minute later he felt her hand on his leg, and it stayed there for the rest of the drive. He didn't know who she was trying to reassure with the touch, but he didn't argue.

When they got to the house, it was... nicer than Clint expected.

It also turned out to be a lie. Or... not a _complete_ lie. She had lived there once... more than once... she kept coming back there every time she tried to get her life in order, but the woman who lived there, the mother of a friend of hers since childhood, hadn't seen her.

"What about her kid?" Clint asked. "You see him?"

"Not in a long, long time," the woman at the door told him. "Not since he was a little boy."

"Any idea where she might be?"

The woman shook her head, then sighed. "Not unless she got back with that no-good boyfriend of hers again. He was the one who got her knocked up, back when she was still in school, although he denies it. She should have been finishing her education, not getting mixed up with trouble like that. I don't know exactly where he lives now, but I don't think he strays too far from where he lived back then."

"You got an address?"

She gave it to him, and he thanked her and left. 

The GPS took them through neighborhoods that got increasingly more dilapidated, until they were in an area that didn't seem entirely fit for human habitation. But of course they weren't at the address they were given, and it was pure dumb luck that got them to the right place.

"Stop!" Natasha said, her fingers digging into his thigh where her hand still rested, but with a lot more tension than it had had when they were just on the highway, not knowing what they were heading for. 

"What?" he asked.

"I see him," Natasha said, then amended, "I think I see him."

"Devon?"

She shot him a scathing look. "Unless you are looking for someone else?"

She had a point. He stopped the car. "Where?"

"Back there. Sitting on steps of house that looks like maybe no one lives there." She pointed. 

"All right." Clint turned off the car and made sure that all of the doors were locked when they got out. They walked back the way that they'd come, and sure enough, there was Devon, alone on a set of steps that looked like they might crumble out from underneath him, hugging a backpack to his chest. 

By the time he looked up, it was too late for him to try to run to escape. "What do you want?" he demanded. His voice was hoarse, like he'd been smoking too many cigarettes, or crying, or both. Clint didn't smell smoke, and as far as he knew Devon didn't smoke, but then as far as he knew Devon also didn't run away to hang out on the steps of what was probably a crack house, so.

"Get in the car," Clint said.

"No."

"Get in the car or I'll make you get in the car," Clint said.

"Yeah? You wanna try? I yell and they'll come running, and then you'll be dead."

"They? Who's they?" Clint looked around. "I don't see anyone."

"My mom's friends."

"Right. Well, I don't see 'em, and I bet there's plenty of yelling around here that gets ignored. Just get in the car. We're going home before you get everyone in trouble."

"Since when do _you_ care about getting in trouble?" Devon asked. "You used to sneak out all the time."

"Yeah, and? I also used to always come back before anyone noticed." Well, almost always. There had been the time that he'd forgotten about the alarm and the cops had been called, but he'd _had_ to go. He hadn't just been being a stupid kid having a tantrum. Natasha had needed him. "How did you get past the alarm, anyway?"

"Same way you always did," Devon replied. "I ain't stupid."

No, Clint guessed he wasn't. "Good. Then you're smart enough to know that no one here gives a shit about you, and if you yell no one's going to come running, and if you stay, maybe it'll be good for a little while but then you'll realize how much better you had it where you were, but it'll be too late."

Devon rolled his eyes. "You think it's better, being told what to do all the time? You think it's better, having to share a room with that stupid little spaz? You think I want to go to see a shrink and talk about all of my problems all the time? The only problem I have is that they took me away from my mom and they won't give her a chance to get me back no matter how hard she tries!"

"Where she is now?" Natasha asked. "In there?"

Devon shrugged. "Maybe."

"Maybe is yes. Why she is in there?"

"She just... needed to pick something up."

"How long she is in there?"

"None of your goddamn business!" Devon snapped. "God, who the fuck do you think you are? Just because your Clint's little whore girlfriend and—"

And what, they never found out, because the minute that word was out of his mouth, Natasha lunged, her hand cracking against his face before closing around his throat. "You do not say that word to me. Ever. You understand?"

Devon's eyes bugged out, but he nodded, as much as he was able.

"Good. Now you get in car, or we make you get in car."

"I'm not going anywhere," Devon said. 

"Fine. We do this hard way, then," Natasha said.

Clint hadn't noticed how much bigger his foster brother had gotten recently until he had to force him into the backseat of his car. Although Devon kept threatening to scream, he never did, and even though he kept swearing he was going to jump out, and he didn't care if the car was moving, he didn't do that either. By the time they got back to the highway, he had settled back into the seat, scrunched down so far Clint doubted that his seatbelt would do him any good if they were in an accident, glaring at them in the rearview mirror.

_I'm not sorry I hit him,_ Natasha signed.

_No one said you had to be,_ Clint replied. 

They hit traffic on the way home, and Clint watched the minutes tick away. He didn't remember what time the Sullivans had said they were going to be home, but he didn't think it was until fairly late... or at least he hoped it wasn't. Carol and Jess were holding down the fort; Natasha called them and checked in. The boys were starting to ask questions, but they'd managed to keep them calm enough that hopefully it wouldn't end up a complete disaster.

Except by the time they got home, the Sullivans were there, standing on the porch with their arms crossed. Before they could say anything, Clint got out of the car with his hands up. "Okay," he said. "This looks bad."


	60. Chapter 60

"Inside," Mrs. Sullivan said, pointing toward the door as if they didn't know what inside meant. Clint could see that her hand was shaking, and she was glaring at them but he couldn't tell if it was directed more at him or Devon. He glanced at Carol and Jessica, who were hovering in the doorway behind his foster parents, but their faces gave no real indication of what had happened.

"Kitchen table. Sit." 

They sat. All of them, even though Clint was pretty sure the command was only directed at him and maybe Devon. The three girls took seats as if they were part of the family, and Clint couldn't help feeling grateful.

"Not you girls," Mr. Sullivan said. "You three can go. We'll... we'll settle the money later, all right?"

"No," Mrs. Sullivan said. "I think they should stay. They're part of this, too."

For a second Clint thought that his foster father was going to object, but then he just sighed, his fingers going to his temples. The younger boys were nowhere to be seen, and as if she could sense what he was thinking, Mrs. Sullivan said, "Connor and Kevin are upstairs. I gave them extra screen time so that we could have this conversation undisturbed."

Conversation? It felt more like an interrogation, even though not a single question had been asked yet. Maybe if she sat down, maybe if Mr. Sullivan stopped pacing, it would feel like a conversation. But he was pretty sure they were both too keyed up for that, and he couldn't really blame them. Whatever happened next, he couldn't really blame them. He just hoped that they would focus on the fact that they'd gotten Devon _back_ , and not on the fact that he'd disappeared in the first place.

He could feel the weight of Mrs. Sullivan's gaze on him, and from the way that the others squirmed in the corners of his vision, they could too. The silence stretched on, and he wondered what she was waiting for. But a quick glance at her made him realize that she was actually at a loss for words. She didn't know what to say... maybe didn't know where to start, or who to start with. A part of him wanted to start pointing fingers, naming names, but he kept his mouth shut.

"Where were you?" she asked finally, and Clint assumed the question was directed at him. "You were supposed to be watching the boys, and when we got home, you weren't here. Where were you?"

"Bridgeport," Clint said, because what was the point in lying, and he didn't really feel like it, anyway. Devon might be his foster brother, but he'd also brought this down on himself, and it wasn't like the Sullivans were going to do anything worse than ground him, maybe have a few extra counseling sessions. 

"Bridgeport."

It wasn't a question, but he answered anyway. "Yes."

"Why?"

"We had to find Devon."

"Find..." Mrs. Sullivan's gaze shifted. "Why were you in Bridgeport?" she asked Devon. "What were you doing there?"

"What the fuck do you _think_ I was doing there?" he asked.

"Language," Mr. Sullivan said, his tone deceptively mild. 

"Fuck you," Devon replied. "I don't have to fucking listen to you."

"Yes," Mr. Sullivan said. "You do."

"No. I don't. You're not my real father and you can't make me do anything, because if you do anything to me, I can just call the cops and tell them that you're abusing me and they'll take me away, and your precious little Connor, too, and Kevin and Clint, and then everyone will know that—"

"Everyone will know what?" Mr. Sullivan asked. "Everyone will know that you're a—"

Mrs. Sullivan put her hand on his arm, stopping him from saying something he might regret. "What do you think you would accomplish by doing that?" she asked Devon, her tone gentle, like she thought she could talk him down, reason with him, make him see the light. She was Good Cop this time around, apparently.

Except it wasn't actually a good cop, bad cop act. They were just trying their best to do their job as parents, and Devon was making it difficult, maybe impossible. And Mr. Sullivan, who Clint had thought had pretty much infinite patience, had finally gotten to the end of his rope.

"I could get the fuck out of here," Devon said. "I know that you're keeping me even though my mom wants me back. I know that it's your fault the courts won't let me go back and live with her."

Mrs. Sullivan shook her head. "Where did you hear that?" she asked. 

"I just know," Devon said. 

"Is that what your mother told you?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. He shrugged. "We can talk more about that later," she said, and then her attention was back on Clint. "What happened?" she asked, and she seemed... maybe not calmer, but at least willing to listen. Like maybe she didn't actually think this was all his fault.

"I went to bed after the relief lady showed up last night at ten," Clint said. "I went to sleep pretty much right after. When I woke up, she left and the girls got here a little while later, and we made breakfast for Connor and Kevin. Devon was still asleep, but that's normal unless you force him to get up, and we didn't feel like forcing him, so..." He shrugged. "It wasn't until about ten that we decided he should probably get up, and so Kevin went to wake him and said he wasn't there. I went to check, but... yeah, he wasn't there."

"What did you do then?" 

"We figured he'd probably gone to find his mom, so we went... uh... went through all the papers we could find and we found his file with her last known address and... went to find him. Only it took longer than we expected, and you got home earlier than we expected, so... yeah." Clint shrugged. 

"You found his file. In a locked file cabinet?" Mr. Sullivan asked.

"I picked the lock," Clint said. What was the point in lying? "It was important. I figured you would rather that I got him back than to not tamper with a lock that, let's face it, isn't really keeping anyone who's determined out."

"Is there a reason that you didn't call us?" Mrs. Sullivan asked. 

Clint looked at the girls, who just looked back at them. "Honestly? It didn't even... I didn't think of it. We thought about calling the authorities, but we didn't want to get you in trouble when it wasn't your fault that he decided to take off, and I didn't want to get in trouble for losing one of the kids, and we thought that we could just get him back and you wouldn't have to know."

"And you all went along with this?" Mr. Sullivan asked, his attention on the girls now, who nodded. "This seemed like a good plan to all of you?"

"Why not?" Jessica said. "As long as he was back before you got home, what was the big deal?"

Mr. Sullivan went back to rubbing his temples. Mrs. Sullivan looked at Clint again. "What if you hadn't been able to find him? What if you drove all the way to Bridgeport and he wasn't there?"

"Then we would have called you," Clint said. "And the police. But we figured that there was pretty much a one hundred percent chance that he went to find his mother, since he's always bitching about how it's so much better with her even though after seeing where she lives I'm sure that's bullshit—"

"Language," she said, but with no real conviction. "What about the other boys?" she asked.

"Carol and Jess were here. Carol deals with Connor better than I can anyway. I figured they would be all right for a couple of hours. And they were, right? I mean, nothing happened?"

"No, nothing happened," Carol reassured him. "We were just surprised when they got home before you did. We tried to explain, but..." She shrugged.

"You shouldn't have left them," Mrs. Sullivan said. "They aren't approved to act as primary caretakers. You should have called us, and we would have figured something out." She sighed. "But everyone is safe, and that's the main thing. We asked a lot of you this weekend – maybe too much – and you did what you thought was right."

"She hit me," Devon said, pointing a finger at Natasha. "She hit me in the face."

Mrs. Sullivan's attention went to Natasha, and Clint felt a chill. "Is that true?"

"Yes," Natasha said. "Is true."

"Why did you hit him?" Mr. Sullivan asked. 

"He call me whore," Natasha said. 

"Is _that_ true?" Mrs. Sullivan asked, looking at Devon.

He shrugged. "Maybe. I don't remember."

"It's true," Clint said. "I may not be able to hear that great, but that came across loud and clear."

"Well, it doesn't look like she's done any permanent damage, so you'll get over it," Mr. Sullivan said. He looked at Mrs. Sullivan. "Think we can let them go?" he asked, nodding in the direction of the girls.

"Yes," she said. "Make sure they get paid. Clint too."

Clint blinked. Was she saying make sure that he got paid, or that he could go, too? Because he really didn't feel like being part of the argument that was very likely going to ensue between his foster parents and their wayward foster son... but he also wasn't sure that he had a choice about it. Or... he had a choice, but not really a good one. 

"One more question before they go, though," Mrs. Sullivan said, but then looked at Devon. "What time did you leave?"

"Around midnight," he said. "That lady was passed out asleep on the couch. It was easy."

And it was also not Clint's fault, because it hadn't happened on his watch.

Mrs. Sullivan nodded. "You four can go," she said.

Mr. Sullivan ushered them out onto the porch. "You don't have to go," he told Clint, "but you might want to. It's going to be a long night. Just... keep your phone on, in case she decides she wants you back for the night, or in case anyone has any more questions."

"Yes sir," Clint said. 

"Go have some fun, or get something to eat or something," Mr. Sullivan said, giving each of them a little more than the agreed-upon payment. "Try not to stress too much about this. It's not our first trip to the rodeo."

They piled into Carol's car, because Clint wanted to be able to sit in the back with Natasha, and because he'd done enough driving for the day, and because he was almost out of gas and now he had plenty of money to fill the tank but no desire to do so. 

Carol backed out of the driveway, then stopped. "Where are we going?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "Anywhere."

"Why don't we just go to the supermarket, get some stuff and have a picnic or something. So we don't necessarily have to be around people," Carol suggested, always the voice of reason.

"Good plan."

They were quiet, only saying whatever words were necessary to get them something resembling a portable meal, and then they were on their way again. For a second Clint considered having Carol go to the cemetery, because he knew for sure no one would disturb them there, but it was still his and Natasha's place, and he didn't want to share it. There were too many memories there he didn't want anyone else to tread on.

They went to a park near Carol's house instead, finding an out of the way corner and spreading a blanket that Carol had tucked in her trunk. From the dried grass stuck to it, he suspected she kept it in there for exactly this reason. It wasn't very big, so even with each of them on one corner, there wasn't much space between them.

"So is that it?" Jess asked when the silence got to be too much. "That's all that's going to happen?"

"I don't know," Clint said. "Probably not." 

"You think you're going to be in trouble?" she asked.

He shrugged. "I don't know. It didn't feel like it. If I was, I'm pretty sure that I would have known it right away."

"It's not like you left the boys without anyone watching them," Carol said. "You did what you thought was right."

"Which maybe was not best thing, but... it ends up okay." Natasha shrugged.

"I know. I honestly thought that Mrs. Sullivan was going to flip out more than she did," Clint said. "I'm hoping that they'll focus on the fact that Devon ran away, and somehow actually managed to make it all the way to Bridgeport, rather than on the fact that in a crisis I made maybe not the smartest choice. At least I didn't just not do anything, right? At least we noticed that he was missing? I mean, what if we'd just decided to let him sleep or hide out in his room all day, and it wasn't until they got home that they found out that he wasn't there at all? Then they'd probably kill me."

"Or kick you out," Jess said. "I mean, they can do that, right?"

"They can," Clint said. "Especially now. If they decided they wanted me gone now, the state wouldn't even necessarily have to find another place for me."

"Wow," Carol said. "Where would you go?"

"Probably see if I could crash with Steve or something," Clint said, flicking a glance at Natasha. "Until I figured out something better, anyway. I don't know if he has room for anyone to stay long term, now that he's living with all those other people."

"You could probably stay in his room," Carol said. "He could just stay in Peggy's."

Natasha snorted. "You think is so?"

"I think is so," Carol confirmed. "I mean, I can't be positive, but... I'm definitely getting that vibe, and good for him, y'know? Why not? They seem good together."

The conversation turned to other things, to plans for summer camp and the end of summer feast, the House Cup and the Quidditch Cup and everything else that they had going on. It was easier than talking about what had happened that day, and what could have happened and what didn't.

As the sun went down and they packed up the blanket and the leftovers, Clint texted Mr. Sullivan. 'Is it okay if I spend the night at Mr. Fury's?'

He didn't get a response for several minutes. 'Go ahead. See you tomorrow.'

'Thanks.'

"You are going there, or coming home?" Natasha asked, and it took Clint a second to process why the sentence sounded strange. It didn't have anything to do with Natasha's accent... or maybe it did because maybe she'd put the words together in the wrong order, which happened quite a bit still, although she was a lot better when speaking to people outside of their group, when she actually put the effort in. 

"I'm go—coming home," he said.

"Good." She slid from the seat behind Carol to the middle, and tucked herself under his arm. And yeah, that was home, more than the Sullivans' would ever be. He didn't look forward to going back there, tomorrow or probably any time for the next several days. So he would take the stay of execution he'd been given and hope that all the good that it did him would be enough to get him through.


	61. Chapter 61

"Better they do it here where they're supervised and we can keep them safe than out there where they might get themselves in trouble," seemed to be the philosophy that Thor's parents were taking toward alcohol at their son's birthday party, which had morphed into a sort of back to school party, since he would be heading back to college soon, and Tony and Bruce were leaving early the next week as well for orientation. 

It wasn't a philosophy that the Sullivans would agree with, and it probably wasn't strictly (or even remotely) legal, but Clint figured Mr. Odinson probably knew people who knew people who could make sure that a blind eye was turned... or maybe he just figured he was intimidating enough that he could keep things from getting out of hand. Which was probably true.

Whatever the case, Clint was glad that they weren't forced to sneak around and sip from flasks. The alcohol was being monitored to make sure that no one had too much, and it had been made clear the adults at the party wouldn't hesitate to cut off everyone if anyone got too rowdy. But he could have a beer if he wanted a beer, and after the week he'd had, he wanted a beer.

_I don't know how you can drink that,_ Natasha signed, because the music and everyone talking around them was enough to make it difficult for anyone to hear, and for Clint it made it helpless. _It tastes like piss._

_You've tasted piss?_ Clint dodged before she could take a swipe at him. 

_You know what I mean._

_And what are you drinking?_ , he asked. _Wait, no, don't tell me._ He pressed his fingers to his temples like he was trying to divine an answer from some kind of cosmic source. _Could it be... vodka?_

This time he didn't manage to dodge, but she was laughing even as she shoved his shoulder. _Some stereotypes exist for a reason,_ she told him. _Anyway, it does the job a lot quicker than **that**._ She jutted her chin in the direction of his beer. _At least it's not Bud Lite. How can you trust any kind of drink that doesn't even know how to spell its own name properly? ___

Clint raised his eyebrows. _Uh... Absolut?_

She wrinkled her nose. _Stolichnaya._

_I couldn't pronounce that if I tried,_ Clint told her.

_You could,_ she said. _If you tried. If I taught you._

But he got the feeling that she didn't really want to teach him. He wondered sometimes if she still thought in Russian, and if that ever went away. He'd heard or read somewhere that you were fluent in a language when you started to dream in it. He dreamed in sign language sometimes, although a lot of those dreams were more likely nightmares, because in addition to not being able to hear, he also couldn't speak for some reason, and no matter where he looked or who he turned to, no one understood what he was signing, and Natasha was never around. Sometimes he had good dreams, where Natasha was there and the rest of the world just kind of didn't matter or maybe wasn't even there, and sometimes he had dreams where everyone could sign, and that was weird, but kind of nice, too.

"What are you two talking about?" 

Clint turned, prepared for Jessica and her accusing looks. She was paranoid that they were talking about her every time she saw them sign, no matter how many times that they told her she really wasn't that interesting. But it was Bobbi. 

"Alcohol," he said. "She's being a snob."

"I am not snob," Natasha said. "He is..." She frowned, searching for a word. "Peasant," is what she ended up saying, but he could tell from the look on her face that it wasn't what she'd really wanted. 

Bobbi laughed. "Does it really matter? The result is the same."

"Candy is dandy, but liquor is quicker," Carol chimed in, joining them from wherever she'd been, and she'd obviously brought her own bottle to supplement what they were being allowed, or maybe she was just really happy. But the big sloppy grin on her face seemed like more of a mask.

At least she was a happy drunk.

"What are you drinking?" Clint asked Bobbi. "Or are you?"

"I'm not," Bobbi said. "I don't, and I'm pretty sure I'm not supposed to. Although I didn't have a liver transplant, and some people say that red wine is good for the heart, but my mom would kill me if she found out that I'd been drinking, for one, and for two I just don't like it much." She shrugged. 

"No shame in that," Clint said. "You'll end up with more brain cells than all of us."

"That's the goal," she said. "Whatever it takes to get out of here." 

"I'll drink to that," Carol said, and downed the rest of the bottle she was holding in one gulp.

"What are we drinking to?" Thor asked, coming up and throwing his arms around Carol and Bobbi's necks and squeezing them together in what was probably meant to be a hug but looked more like a double strangle-hold. 

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Clint said. "Bobbi could put you on the ground in two seconds."

"I could," Bobbi said. "But probably wouldn't, just to get away from this. It would be a non-standard defense."

Thor looked at her like she was speaking another language, so she just put her hands around his arm, pulling it down to her chest so that it wasn't against her neck anymore (not that he'd been holding tight, but that wasn't the point), dropped her weight, and then stepped back to get her head free, keeping hold of his arm so that it was twisted behind his back, and then pressed the wrist toward the elbow. 

Clint couldn't help laughing at the look on Thor's face. He wasn't hurt, just startled, and possibly a little confused. "But you're... tiny."

"I am," Bobbi agreed, "at least compared to you."

"'Though she be but little, she be fierce,'" Natasha said.

"Shakespeare," Thor said. "Impressive."

Natasha shrugged. "I'm Russian, not stupid."

"I didn't—" Thor said, holding his hands up as if in surrender.

"I know," she said. "Is all right."

"Has anyone seen Tony or Bruce?" Thor asked. "This party is for them as much as for me, and I haven't seen them."

Everyone glanced around at each other, but they all held looks of equal bafflement. "He said they were coming, didn't he?" Carol asked. "Tony? I assume you talked to Tony, rather than Bruce. I can't see Bruce being big on a party in his honor."

"He said they were coming, yes," Thor said. 

"Maybe he's decided to be 'fashionably late'," Carol suggested, making quotes with her fingers around the words.

"You don't think anything happened, do you?" Bobbi asked. "The last thing we need is anyone else ending up in the hospital this year."

" _Technically_ , that was last year," Clint pointed out, trying to lighten the mood, because he really didn't want to think about the possibility of anyone ending up in the hospital. He was here to get away from all of that. The screams were still echoing in his head from two nights before, when Devon had gotten fed up with Connor and shoved him, and he'd fallen and hit his head and ended up having to be taken to the ER to have it glued back together. (Because apparently the old carnie trick of using super glue instead of stitches was actually medically legit now.) And of course he hadn't gone quietly. 

Clint had almost left in the middle of the chaos, not wanting any part of it, but with Mr. Sullivan dealing with Devon and Mrs. Sullivan trying to soothe Connor enough to get him into the car without him bursting her eardrums along the way, Kevin had been left standing there, bewildered and looking ready to freak. So Clint had taken him into the living room to play video games, and damn the rules about limited screen time. (They'd also damned the rules about only one dessert, and if either of their foster parents noticed, they hadn't said a word.)

"Do you think maybe we should call them?" Thor asked. 

"Probably," Carol said, but before they could decide who was actually going to make the call, Tony arrived, with Bruce in tow.

And of course, because he was Tony Stark and he didn't know the meaning of the word subtle, he made sure that everyone _knew_ that he had arrived. It was a good thing that Thor was so laid back, or he might have been upset about the fact that Tony pretty much came in and took over the party, drawing attention as if he was a flame and everyone else was moths.

Bruce came over to where they were gathered, leaving Tony to talk to the people who had decided to bask in the Stark glow. "Sorry we're late," he said, ducking his head. "He was caught up, and I kept telling him we needed to go, but... you know how he gets."

"Don't worry about it," Thor said, jovial as always... or almost always. Clint had seen him serious, but usually he went through life with a smile on his face. Must be nice. "Make yourself at home. Have a drink if you're so inclined, or have soda if you're not. There's plenty of food, and any minute now one of my friend's band is going to put on a little show."

"You have a friend in a band?" Bruce asked. 

"Are they any good?" Jessica asked.

"I think so," Thor said. "I've never actually _heard_ them play, but he assured me that they had a very faithful following."

It took less than one song for them to realize that their faithful following had to be composed primarily by people who were under some sort of familial obligation to lend them their support, because they were absolutely terrible. And not even in a so bad it's good kind of way. They were so bad it was just _bad_.

"I think I need another beer," Clint said.

They found themselves a place that was as far away from the band as possible, and after grabbing food from the buffet that the Odinsons had set out, they sat down, sticking by each other because they didn't know a lot of the other people there. 

"So are you excited about going to school?" Bobbi asked Bruce. 

"Excited, yeah," Bruce said, but he didn't sound excited. "Nervous, too," and that was obviously closer to the truth. "It's just... weird. I mean, it's not like I've lived in the same house my whole life and this is the first time that I'm leaving or anything like that. It's not like it's even the first time I'm living without parents; I pretty much do that now. But it's like... the first time I've felt like I'm going to be on my own, you know? Like _really_ on my own."

"But Tony will be there with you," Jessica pointed out. "Right? I mean, that was the whole big deal, wasn't it, that you were going together?" 

"Yeah," Bruce said. "And that's good, but at the same time... I want to be able to be my own person. I don't just want to be Tony Stark's friend."

"You'll be going into totally different areas, though," Bobbi said. "Sure, there might be some overlap, but you'll have the chance to make your own group of friends in your classes, and I'm sure there will be other things for you to get involved in that he won't have any interest in."

"What about camp?" Natasha asked. "That you went to last year. Are people from that coming back?"

"A few," Bruce said. "But I did that with Tony, too."

"If you're so against being in the same place as Tony," Carol asked, "why did you do it? You could have gone anywhere."

Bruce shrugged. "I don't know. I guess... even if maybe it means that I'll have to work harder to set myself apart from him... at least I won't be alone. At least I'll have one friend if... y'know, things get bad." He didn't quite look at any of them when he said it, but they all knew what he was saying.

"Things won't get bad," Bobbi said, reaching out and touching his arm. "Not like that. Not again. It's... I can't promise that there won't be times when it's tough, but it won't get that bad again."

Clint didn't know how she could say that, how she could make it sound like a promise. She didn't know. None of them did. Things could go to hell for him the first week, and it might just be too much and then what would he do? Would he tell Tony? Would Tony be able to help? Sure, he was a good enough guy when he wanted to be, but he was pretty self-centered and if Bruce came to him saying that he was having a hard time, would Tony actually _listen_?

"Thanks," Bruce said, and maybe he believed Bobbi and maybe he didn't. 

"And we'll check in on your grandparents if you want," Steve said. "I know you're close to them."

"Not... not really," Bruce admitted. "They took care of me, but... I wouldn't say we were close. They didn't really know what to do with me most of the time. They just..." He shrugged. "But thanks. It'd be nice knowing that someone is looking out for them."

"Whatever happens," Carol said, "it'll be better than being stuck here."

"What's wrong with being here?" Jessica asked, narrowing her eyes. 

"Nothing," Carol said, "if you've got a plan to get out. But you don't want to get stuck here forever and end up like my Dad or something."

"Your dad is from here? I thought you are from Boston," Natasha said. 

"Okay, bad example," Carol said. "My point is... you gotta dream bigger than this. This... this can't be my entire world. Maybe you all don't see it because this place has been your lives, but... that's not true, and that's bullshit. Natasha came from Russia. Clint came from all over. Jess... well, you came from not that far away but an entirely different world. It's..." She rubbed her hand through her hair, tugging at it hard enough that it moved her head, like she was trying to shake loose the thought she was having. "There's a whole world out there and most of us have seen so little of it, and how can you stand that? How can you stand the idea of this being all there is? How can you not feel trapped?"

"Have a sense of home and stability doesn't mean you're trapped," Steve said. "I believe that when it's the right time to move on to something else, somewhere else, the opportunity will come up and it's just a matter of recognizing it when it does."

Carol snorted. "Yeah, well, maybe you're happy with community college, but some of us aspire to more."

For a second Steve looked like he'd been slapped, but he recovered. "I'm happy with the fact that I'm saving money getting my basic classes out of the way, so that I don't bankrupt myself when I figure out exactly where I want to go to finish my degree," he said. "I'm happy that I met Peggy, which wouldn't have happened if I went elsewhere. I'm happy that I was able to be around for the year while you guys were still in school, and that I'll be here next year so that I can see the rest of you graduate. I'm happy—"

"Okay, we get it," Carol snapped. "God. You make me sick."

_No,_ Clint thought. _That's just the alcohol._ But he wasn't stupid or drunk enough to say it.

When Carol got up to leave, no one – not even Jess – got up to follow her. They just looked at each other and shrugged. She would get over it. She always did.


	62. Chapter 62

They had called the trip Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them on the flyer (which doubled as a permission slip) that had been distributed to the kids to give to their parents. The truth was, it was a trip to the zoo. Because they had obviously lost their damned minds, and somewhere along the line they'd decided that taking a bunch of kids to the zoo would be a good idea.

It was not a good idea, Clint realized, not even twenty minutes in to the hour plus long bus ride. Kids were yelling, kids were singing (off-key, he was pretty sure), and one kid was complaining that he didn't feel good, he _really_ didn't feel good, sometimes he got car sick...

"If you puke, you're cleaning it up yourself," Jessica hissed when she thought no one would overhear, or at least not anyone who would care. The boy's eyes went wide as saucers, but he stopped complaining, even if he didn't stop looking a little green.

_Who decided this was a good idea?_ , Clint asked Natasha, who was sitting across the aisle. 

Lewis, who was sitting next to him, tugged at his sleeve and signed, "What? What?" He had almost been excluded from the trip, which was invitation-only, based on behavior, and although there had been some improvements with the boy, they'd still been unsure how he would handle being in an unfamiliar environment. It had been Clint who'd spoken up for him, wanting to at least give him a chance. He got the feeling that he didn't get many opportunities to do fun things when he was at home. Nothing really to back it up; it was just a hunch that he had.

"Nothing," Clint said and signed. "I wasn't talking to you."

Lewis screwed up his face and scrunched down in the seat in a pout. 

_He's going to make me regret this, isn't he?_ , Clint asked. Natasha didn't answer, but he hadn't expected her to. The question had been pretty much rhetorical, and the answer was almost certainly yes.

They bumped along on the highway, the shocks of the camp bus (a school bus that seemed to be on its last legs) creaking in a way that was kind of alarming. They hit a traffic jam, and then it started to rain, and Clint started to wonder if this was all going to end up being for nothing. If they got there and it was pouring, would they just turn around and go back? How would they explain that to the kids?

Maybe one of the more experienced counselors had a secret stash of ponchos – or even just garbage bags they could tear head and arm holes into – to keep the kids dry if it did keep raining. As long as it didn't turn into a downpour, they should be all right... right?

They'd settled on group assignments the day before, after the campers had gone home. The groups varied in size from four to six, and they'd tried to give each group leader a mix of the unruly and the responsible, and a mix of young and old so that hopefully, if necessary, the older ones could help wrangle the younger ones. 

Clint wasn't sure who was more relieved when they arrived – the kids or the counselors. He couldn't speak for anyone else, but he'd been getting really sick of the close quarters and noise. He sensed from the looks on the faces of Natasha and Jess that they were of a similar opinion. Bobbi and Carol were a bit more cheerful, but they'd been on the other bus, and maybe it hadn't been as bad. Thankfully, it had stopped raining.

"Does everyone have a phone on them?" Steve asked the group leaders. "I'm assuming your phones all tell you what time it is. We're meeting at Pavilion A, which is marked on the zoo maps that will be distributed when we go in, at eleven-thirty for lunch. We only have it reserved for an hour, so do your best to be on time. Try to go through the gates in an orderly fashion; the tickets are already taken care of but they need to make sure that they get a count, and if everyone is running wild we will make their lives difficult and it will end up taking longer than if we'd done it right the first time."

Clint counted his group for the first (of what he assumed would probably be a couple of hundred) time. He only had four, because everyone had figured he would have his hands full with Lewis and giving him more kids than was absolutely necessary to keep an eye on was just asking for trouble. He and Natasha had decided they would just merge their groups into one big group, figuring two sets of nearly-adult eyes were better than one, and also figuring that, despite their best efforts, the groups were mixed-gender, which could make bathroom trips complicated if there wasn't a chaperone that could go into the bathroom with the kids.

The kids she'd been given were relatively easy-going, and two of Clint's were older, and they hoped that it would translate into an easier day. "Which way do you want to go first?" he asked them when they got inside. "Right or left?"

"Polar bears!" a girl, maybe nine years old, from Natasha's group chimed in. "I want to see the polar bears!"

Clint consulted his map. "Right it is, then," he said. The polar bears were actually fairly close to the entrance, and would be as good a starting point as any. They made sure that they all eight kids in sight and headed off, watching first from the outside, then from an indoor viewing area that took them under the water level, so that if the polar bears decided to go swimming, they would be able to see it. Unfortunately, the day wasn't all that warm, and the polar bears seemed to be perfectly happy lounging on the (probably fake) rocks and sunning themselves.

Eventually the kids got restless, and they moved on. They stopped almost immediately, because directly across from the polar bear area was the wolves, and unlike the bears, they _were_ up and moving. One paced along the fence, and Clint swore that at one point the animal looked right at him. (The alternative was that he was sizing up the kids, trying to decide if they would make a good snack.) He would have lingered there a lot longer, just watching and wishing he could reach out and press his hand to the fence, to touch the wolf's fur and see if it was soft or coarse, if it felt like a dog's or like something else. But the kids had limited attention spans, and it was better to keep moving. They could always come back after, if they saw everything else before time ran out. 

They'd only made it a few steps before Lewis stopped dead in his tracks, refusing to budge.

"What is it?" Clint asked. 

_Train!_ , Lewis signed, pointing. _Train, train, train!_

"Yes," Clint agreed. "There's a train." 

_Train now._

"We're not going on the train," Clint said. "It costs extra money."

_NOW,_ Lewis insisted. _Train NOW._

Clint looked at Natasha in silent inquiry. She shrugged slightly. "Does everyone want to go on train?" she asked. None of the kids objected, and few started bouncing on the balls of their feet, so they reached into their own wallets to pay the $1.00 per kid that would get them on the train. 

_At least this way they can't run off,_ Clint said as they sat themselves on the benches. 

_We hope,_ Natasha replied. _If they decide to jump off the train and into the lion's den, I'm not going after them._

_Natural selection,_ Clint agreed, and Natasha snorted.

"What's so funny?" one of the kids asked. Neither of them answered.

The train left the little station and took them around an area of the zoo that seemed to be trying to replicate the African savanna. As it looped around the track, Clint got the feeling that they might not have been able to see some of these animals so well if they hadn't taken the ride, so maybe it was worth it after all. (And maybe, if they were lucky and asked nicely, they could get reimbursed the ten bucks, but he wasn't holding his breath.)

_Again,_ Lewis signed when they got back to the station.

Clint shook his head. "We're not going again. One of the other kids gets to pick what we see next." He made sure that he had a firm grip on the boy as they started moving again, afraid that he would decide to bolt, or to stage a sit-down strike or something. Luckily, after a few dragging steps, he seemed to let go of the idea that he could somehow con his way back onto the train, and kept pace with the rest of the group.

"We already saw lions," one kid said. "Do you think they have tigers?"

"What about bears?" another – they were best friends, Clint was pretty sure, and both had been sorted into Ravenclaw – chimed in. 

And then suddenly they had linked arms with two of the others and were skipping down the path, not so fast that they would lose the rest of the group, but fast enough that people got out of their way, chanting with increasing volume, "Lions and tigers and bears, oh my!"

"I think we missed something," Clint muttered to Natasha.

She looked at him, horrified. "You don't know Wizard of Oz?"

"Uh... no?"

"'I don't think we're in Kansas anymore'?"

"I know that," Clint said. "And something about Toto. I figured it had something to do with the band."

Natasha shook her head in disgust. "And _I_ am uncultured swine?"

"Who said that?"

"American opinion."

"I thought the Cold War was over," Clint said.

Natasha shrugged. "I think better we walk faster or we lose them," she said, and picked up the pace.

They'd managed to see a little over half of the zoo, and nothing too dramatic had happened, by the time eleven-thirty rolled around. Of course, they also managed to find themselves on the opposite side of the zoo as lunchtime approached, and it was hard to chivvy the kids past all of the things they hadn't seen yet, even when they promised they would come back.

They were one of the last groups to arrive, but food was still being handed out (a bag lunch had been packed for each kid; Jess had grumbled about it for _hours_ ) so at least they weren't holding anyone up. Normally during lunch they could relax a little bit, maybe sit at least a few feet away from the kids, but that wasn't really an option here. When everyone was done eating, they kids had a few minutes of quiet time before they were released again, leaving Jessica and a few others to make sure that everything was cleaned up. 

They headed back to where they'd left off, but this time they got held up at a little stand selling ice cream. "Can we have some?" a boy asked. "Please?"

"Did you bring money?" Clint asked. The kids had been allowed to bring up to ten dollars (not more because the camp didn't want to have to listen to parents complaining about it if their kid lost it, and ten dollars was an amount they could give back to the parent if they really raised a stink) for souvenirs, but there was nothing that said they couldn't use it on ice cream instead if they wanted to.

"Yeah."

"If you want to spend your money on ice cream, go ahead," he said. "Any of you can get ice cream if you have your own money. Just remember that if you want to buy something in the gift shop, and you already spent your money on ice cream, that's too bad for you. I don't want to hear complaining from anyone. Understand?"

It took longer than it should have, as some kids waffled on how they wanted to spend their money, but finally they were moving again, slowed slightly by the fact that apparently it was very difficult to walk and eat ice cream at the same time. 

A bathroom stop turned into another fiasco, as kids decided not to follow instructions and stay in the bathroom together until they were all done, so for a few minutes they thought that they'd lost two of the group, and Clint could feel his heart pounding against his ribcage as he looked around, trying to figure out what the hell they were supposed to do. But then they'd turned up, having wandered off to look at an exhibit.

"But it was only just right there," one of them said, pointing. "We didn't go far."

"You weren't supposed to go anywhere," Natasha said. "I give you instructions, you do not follow. Five points from your house. Each."

"But—"

"No but," Natasha said. "And yes, I know you are my house. I don't care. You do stupid thing, you lose points. End of story."

It had put a damper on the mood, but not for long, because they'd found the penguins, and who could be upset when looking at a bunch of penguins?

"Are you _sure_ you want to go in there?" Clint asked them when they all made a beeline for the petting zoo. "It's just, like, farm animals. It ain't exciting." 

But the kids couldn't be dissuaded, and so they went in, and a few of them put quarters into a machine to get food to the feed the goats, and then ran when the goats charged them. Clint finally had to wade in and get one of the girls out, because she'd been cornered and looked like she was about to lose her mind and start screaming. "What did you think was going to happen?" he asked, setting her down safely outside the gate.

By the time they had made the full circuit, it was almost time to go back to the busses. "All right," he said. "We're going into the gift shop. You only have ten minutes, so look around but make a decision quickly, because we don't have a lot of time. And again, no whining."

The kids scattered, disappearing among the racks, and Clint had another flash of panic when he realized there was no way that he could keep an eye on all of them at once. The older ones he trusted... and even the younger ones, really. The only one he didn't trust was Lewis... and where the hell was he?

Clint began to scour the store, and finally found the boy under a rack of t-shirts, sitting on the floor. "Come on out," he said. "We're getting ready to go."

But the little boy shook his head, and grabbed on to the rack when Clint tried to pull him out. Clint had to reach passed him to pry loose his fingers, and he finally just gave up and slung Lewis onto his back, letting him cling like a monkey as they left the zoo because if he didn't there was no way he was going to get him safely back onto the bus.

From the looks of things, most of the kids had bought candy instead of anything that might last longer than the bus ride home, but they hadn't made any rules about what they could and couldn't buy, so they hadn't been able to stop them. The sugar got them amped up and if anything, the ride home was even noisier than the ride to the zoo. Clint finally just took his hearing aids out because he couldn't take it anymore. 

Lewis looked at them and pointed. _What?_

"They help me hear," Clint explained. "But it's too noisy."

"Yeah!" Lewis said, nodding emphatically so that even if the word hadn't been clear Clint would have caught the meaning. When he started babbling, in word and sign, Clint didn't bother to tell him that he couldn't hear a word he was saying. He just responded to the signs, and was glad when about halfway home, the boy tipped over against the window, dead asleep.

_I wish I could do the same,_ Natasha said.

_As soon as we get home, I plan to,_ Clint said. _You're welcome to join me._

_Don't mind if I do._

They grinned at each other, the first real smile they'd shared all day, and hoped that there was no traffic to delay their return.


	63. Chapter 63

"I'm actually kind of going to miss it," Carol said on the last day of camp. "Y'know?"

"No," Jessica said. "I don't know."

But Clint was pretty sure she was lying, or at least bending the truth. As the summer had drawn to a close, her mood had gotten worse, and as much as she complained about the kids and the noise and the mess, he was pretty sure that she preferred being in the kitchen, even if it was making the same stuff day after day, week after week, to sitting at a desk in school, learning stuff that would either never serve any purpose, or that just didn't seem all that important or interesting.

Not that school was _all_ bad... except that it kind of was. He was dreading going back, and if it wasn't for Natasha, and the fact that he only got to see her every day because they were both stuck there, he would probably stop going. Well, that and the fact that he was pretty sure his foster parents wouldn't let him stick around if he dropped out, but that was a whole other situation that he didn't really feel like thinking about, because when he did it just gave him a headache.

"As far as summer jobs go, this has actually kind of been an awesome one," Bobbi chimed in. "Not that I have a huge amount of experience, but honestly? We're getting paid pretty well, and even if the kids sometimes drive us crazy... look at what we've done! The people in charge actually listen to us, and let us do things that we think will make things better and more fun, and that's actually pretty uncommon, I think. Seriously, look at what we've done! We turned the camp into Hogwarts for the whole summer! We've got the Quidditch Cups to award today, and the House Cup, too! We're having a feast with Butterbeer – you _did_ figure out Butterbeer, didn't you?" She looked at Jessica.

"We figured it out," Jessica confirmed. "But they wouldn't let us spike it so that they'd all sleep through the afternoon."

Natasha snorted. "I think Steve would not like that plan."

"Yeah... he really didn't," Jessica said, grinning. "I don't think it helped that he really couldn't tell if I was being serious or not."

"Were you?" Clint asked.

"Only a little," Jess replied, still smirking.

"Anyway," Bobbi said, "Butterbeer and pumpkin pasties and—"

"Fizzing Whizzbees and pretty much anything we could think of a way to translate," Jessica said. "I might have gone a _little_ overboard, but some of the stuff is maybe a little different from what the kids are used to, and we wanted to make sure that there were plenty of things to choose from so that if they didn't like one thing, there would be another. And for the really picky ones, there's peanut butter and jelly cookie-cuttered into 'magical' shapes." She made the quote marks with her fingers.

"How are things going in here?" Steve asked, poking his head into the cafeteria where they were setting up for the feast. 

"Almost done," Carol said. "How does it look?"

"It looks amazing," Steve said. "Seriously. You've completely transformed the place."

And they had, and Clint couldn't help feeling a little bit proud. Not that much of it was his doing... or really any of it, except that he'd helped hang up some streamers and stuff. But the walls were hung with various craft projects the kids had done over the course of the summer (they would be able to take them home after the feast) and the tables had been arranged into four long columns, just like in the movies. They'd been set with the regular plates and forks, but the paper napkins were in house colors, and they'd gotten plastic goblets instead of regular cups. Whether they would admit it or not, everyone was pretty excited to see the kids' reaction when they came in.

"So who won the House Cup?" Carol asked. 

"I'm not telling," Steve said. "You'll find out when the kids do."

"How do we know that there hasn't been foul play in the tallying of points, then?" Jessica asked, even though she didn't have a house and didn't really have any investment in the outcome.

Natasha laughed. "You know who you are asking, right?"

"Steve is like, the original boy scout," Clint said. He flicked a glance at Steve. "He's like, a turkey-hawk scout or something."

" _Eagle_ ," Steve corrected, looking slightly pained. 

"Right. Eagle." Which Clint had known, but it was funny to watch Steve squirm, deciding which was the lesser crime – not correcting someone because it's not polite, or having them get something so important (at least to him) wrong. "Anyway, there will be no foul play." He smirked. "No pun intended."

"Anyway," Steve said. "The kids are getting here soon, so anyone who is not in the middle of something should come out and make sure they don't run amok."

"I've got it," Jessica said, so the rest of them went out to deal with the incoming hordes. They were the Heads of Houses, after all, so it was only fair that they make sure that their campers didn't do anything that would lose them points at the last minute, assuming that they were still being counted.

The morning flew by faster than any had so far, with the finals for the Quidditch Cup being played, and somehow even the kids who were just spectators didn't lose focus. The kids had been separated into four age divisions, and while the oldest ones took the game very seriously, for the youngest it was pretty much just a blob of kids who didn't even seem to be entirely sure who was on what team, running around and bumping into each other and laughing a lot.

In the end, it felt like some kind of miracle, because in each division a different house had won, which meant that each house would get its own Quidditch Cup, and each camper would get a ribbon stating that their house had won. (The actual players on the teams would get tiny plastic trophies, but they'd wanted to make sure that everyone got _something_ to take home.)

By the time they got through the games, everyone was starving, anxious to get to the cafeteria to see its transformation into the Great Hall. 

"Everyone line up!" Carol called over the din of the kids chattering. "Line up by house, because you're going to process in. Does every house have their banner?"

They did, and the kids who carried them were beaming proudly as they held them up. The honor of being the banner-carrier had been awarded to the camper who had most exemplified the traits of their house over the course of the summer, as determined by the heads of houses. It had led to some disappointment, sure, but in the end Clint didn't think anyone was too upset. It was an honor that would only last a couple of minutes, anyway.

"When the doors open, you'll need to march in in an orderly fashion," Carol said. "No running, no trying to get ahead of anyone else. It's going to be a Gryffindor first, then Ravenclaw, Hufflepuff, then Slytherin, just because that's the order the tables are in. All right?"

"Yes!" the kids chorused, and the heads of houses slipped inside to take their places at the 'high table'. When the doors opened, there was a bit of a traffic jam as the kids stepped inside... and then stopped, their eyes wide in awe, until they were hurried along to their tables by counselors along the edges of the room.

The banners were hung, and when everyone was seated, trays of food began to appear, and the volume increased exponentially as kids shouted to their friends, telling them to look at this and try that and don't, whatever you do, eat the khaki-colored Every Flavor Beans.

"Alas," Clint said, leaning over to Natasha. "Earwax!"

She nearly snorted her pumpkin juice.

They'd scheduled much longer than usual for lunch, which was good because the kids took a lot longer to eat, and not just because there were a lot more choices. When the desserts came out, the room got noisier still, and it didn't stop until Steve stood up and called for everyone's attention.

"Now," he said. "We all already witnessed the Quidditch Cup finals, but it's time to hand out the awards. First, in the 5-7 division, we have... RAVENCLAW!" 

The captain of the Ravenclaw team came up to accept the larger trophy (which would stay with the camp, but for now it would sit on their table), and the smaller ones were given to each member of the team, while counselors gave ribbons (blue, of course, and printed with the words 'Quidditch Cup Winner') to the rest of the campers in the house.

"For the 8-10 division, the winner is... GRYFFINDOR!" The process was repeated, with somewhat louder cheering this time. 11-13 went to Hufflepuff, and the 14-15 cup (kids age 16 and 17 were counselors-in-training and hadn't been eligible to play; they'd been coaches, referees, and Snitches instead) went to Slytherin, which drew a groan, but luckily no booing. It had been the most hotly contested game, and they had beat Gryffindor (of course) by only a few points with a lucky catch of the Snitch. 

"And now, what you've all been waiting for," Steve said. "The awarding of the House Cup. All summer, you have been doing your best to earn points for your house, and making sure to be on your best behavior so you didn't lose them. It's been close all summer, and for that, we all want to thank you. But in the end, one house did pull ahead by just a few points. So I'm honored to announce that this year's House Cup goes to..."

The pause seemed to stretch on forever, and although he didn't think any of them would admit it, he was pretty sure that he wasn't the only Head of House with butterflies in his stomach.

"HUFFLEPUFF!"

Silence. No one had seen it coming. Hufflepuff never really got recognition for anything in the books, except Cedric Diggory, and then mostly because he died. And then wild cheering from the yellow-bedecked table, and Clint stood up to accept the cup on behalf of his house.

He looked at Natasha, who smiled, and Bobbi, who shrugged. Carol grinned and winked; she'd never really expected to win the cup, despite her house's reputation in the books. She'd ended up with too many troublemakers and practical jokers to really stand a chance.

"After the feast," Steve said, "we need everyone to take a look in the lost and found, make sure there's nothing of yours in there, and gather up any arts and crafts projects that you made that you might want to take home. Your parents will be arriving to pick you up soon."

The last day of camp ended in chaos, and more hugs than Clint knew what to do with, although he handled it better than Natasha, who looked ready to throttle the next sticky-handed kid who came her way. But she gritted her teeth and dealt with it, because she was the Slytherin Head of House and her campers deserved no less. 

Most of the kids were gone when Clint felt a tug on the back of his shirt. He turned and looked, and of course it was Lewis, beaming at him. _Mother,_ he signed, then, _Father._ He pointed to a man and a woman who looked less than thrilled to be standing there. The woman had a toddler on her hip, and the father was jingling his keys in his hand.

"Hi," Clint said, stepping toward them. "It's nice to meet you, finally." He signed the words as he said them, habit when he was around Lewis now. "I've really enjoyed working with Lewis this summer."

Lewis's mom narrowed her eyes like she didn't believe him. His dad looked... pissed. "So you're the one responsible for all this mumbo-jumbo?" he asked, waving his hands around in front of him. "Making it look like our kid is some kind of retard?"

Clint didn't know what to say to that. "It's sign language," he said. "American Sign Language. It's... just as valid as English, and it helps him communicate. You... maybe you've noticed that he tends to get a little, uh, frustrated, when he can't quite get his point across? It... this makes it easier."

"Oh yeah," the man said. "Easier for you, maybe. You some kind of retard too?" He put his hand on Lewis's shoulder, pulling him away from Clint. "Come on. Let's get out of here."

Like Clint was contagious or something. He watched them go, wanting to say something, but he couldn't find the words, and anyway he didn't want to cause a scene on the last day. _Asshole,_ he signed at the man's retreating back. He couldn't help feeling a little bit smug that Lewis was already dragging his feet, looking ready to pitch the kind of tantrum he'd been prone to at the beginning of the summer, but that they'd mostly managed to avoid by the end as his ability to communicate improved.

"So what are we going to do next summer?" Bobbi asked when they were all inside again, deconstructing the Great Hall and turning it back into a cafeteria. "We can't do Hogwarts two years in a row."

"Are you going to be here again next year?" Steve asked. "You might be busy getting ready for college. All of you." 

"Well, if we have to we can maybe just leave a few days early," Bobbi said. "Most orientations are next week, I think." They still had a full week before school started the day after Labor Day. "Thor went back early because of sports, and Tony and Bruce were doing some kind of special thing before regular orientation."

"We'd love to have you back, of course," Steve said, "if things work out."

"We could do the Hunger Games," Jessica suggested, smiling wickedly. Clint was pretty sure that she just said it to watch the look on Steve's face, which he had to admit was pretty priceless.

"I don't think that's, uh, appropriate," he said. 

"Too bad," she replied. 

"There must be something else with more of a positive spin. You've got all year to think about it." He smiled and went to throw out the used streamers. He'd tried to convince them that they could be saved, used again later, but he'd given up the first time one ripped when he tried to remove the tape.

It was strange, who a year felt like such a long time, and yet not long at all. In a year, they would really be done with school. They would be adults – not that Clint wasn't already, technically – out in the world. And for all that he'd chafed at the constraints placed on him by being in a foster home, part of a family that tried very hard to be normal, for all that he'd thought about running off pretty much every day for the first few months, until he met Natasha (and for a while even after that), he hadn't actually ever had to live _on his own_.

He wasn't quite sure he was ready to face it, so he guessed he should be glad that he still had another year to figure it all out.

"Are you coming over?" Natasha asked.

"Yeah," Clint said. "But I have to stop home first, mow the lawn."

She nodded. "Just text when you're leaving."

"I will." He caught her hand and squeezed it, holding it for a moment before letting go so she could catch up with Carol and Jessica and get a ride home.

He drove back to the Sullivan's... and almost turned right back around when he saw that there was a police car parked in front of the house. Whatever was happening, he didn't want a part of it. 

But whatever was happening, he was a part of it, whether he liked it or not. So he got out of his car and went inside, where everyone was gathered in the kitchen. Mrs. Sullivan looked up, and there were tears sliding down her cheeks. 

He'd never seen her cry before. "Shit," he said, and she didn't even seem to notice. "What happened?"


	64. Chapter 64

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For anyone who may have missed it, there was a chapter posted yesterday, so make sure you read that one first or this one won't make a lot of sense.

"Who is this?" the officer asked. It was a woman, thin and blonde, middle-aged, pretty but not so pretty that people would automatically not take her seriously, Clint thought, although maybe when she was younger she might have had a harder time getting respect.

"This is Clint," Mr. Sullivan said. "He's our oldest foster son."

"How long has he been living here?" she asked.

"Two years now," Mr. Sullivan said. "A little bit over, actually. He came to stay with us the summer before last."

The officer looked at him like she wanted some kind of confirmation, so he nodded. "Do you mind if I ask you a few questions?" she asked him, except she was now looking back at the Sullivans, like she needed their permission. 

"About what?" he asked. "Still no one's told me what's going on."

"It's Devon," Mr. Sullivan said.

As much as he didn't much like the kid, especially after the stunt he'd pulled on Clint's watch, the idea that maybe something had happened to him was enough to put a knot in his gut. It would have to be bad, to make Mrs. Sullivan cry. He'd never seen her cry, never even seen her come close, and god knew that they'd given her reason to more than once.

"Did something happen to him?" Clint asked. "Is he all right?"

"He's fine," Mr. Sullivan reassured him. "Nothing happened _to_ him." 

Maybe he wasn't hearing correctly – always a possibility – but the way that his foster father emphasized the words put him on edge. "Did he do something? Is that why there's cops here? Did he—" He stopped himself before saying 'run away _again_ ', because if he had run away, but the cops didn't know about the first time, he didn't want the Sullivans to get in trouble for something that hadn't been their fault. 

_That stupid little shit._

"I'd like to ask you a few questions, if that's all right," the police officer said again. "If that's all right?" Again, she looked at the Sullivans.

"It's up to Clint," Mr. Sullivan said. "He's legally an adult. You don't need our permission to talk to him."

"Fine," Clint said, figuring it was the only way he was ever going to find out what the hell was happening. 

"Do you mind stepping into the other room?"

Mind? Yeah, he did mind. This all felt off, wrong, and he didn't actually want any part of it. Why had he come home in the first place instead of just going home with Natasha? It would have saved him a hell of a lot of hassle, and he could have done the lawn tomorrow or the day after... or never. He could have just gone and not come back at all.

But he _had_ come home, and now he was in the middle of whatever was going on, and there was no escaping it. There was no retreat. So he shrugged and went into the living room with the police officer, who sat down in a chair while he sat on the couch. "I'm Officer Cooper. I just have a few things I want to ask you."

"About what?" he asked. 

"About your home here," she said. "First, though, can I get your full name? For the record?"

"Clint," he said, then, "Barton," because if she didn't get it from him, she would get it from the Sullivans... if she didn't have it already and this was just some kind of test. 

"And they said that you're eighteen?"

"Almost nineteen," he said. 

"But you're still living here."

"Obviously," he said. "They keep getting money for me up to twenty-one of I want to keep staying," he said. "I got behind in school and so I'm gonna be a senior this year. I'll be almost twenty by the time I graduate." He shrugged. "So I'm staying 'til I'm done with that." _Probably._

"Have you lived in a lot of foster homes?" she asked. 

"No. This is the only one. Well, I was in a group home before this, but not for long. They got me placed pretty fast."

"But you've only been here for two years?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"It's just unusual for a child to enter the foster care system so late in life," Officer Cooper said. "Most kids are in it from the time they're pretty young."

Clint weighed the pros and cons of telling the truth, and finally decided that if she really wanted to, she could probably get her hands on his file so he might as well not bother trying to make something up. "You heard about the explosion at the circus not that far from here two years ago?" he asked.

"Yes," she said. "I remember that."

"I grew up in that circus. Both my parents got killed in the explosion, and the rest of 'em left me for dead," he said. "So that's how."

"Ah," she said. "Well, that would certainly explain it. And how would you describe your foster parents?" 

"Crazy," he said, a grin forming and then falling away as he saw that she obviously didn't find it funny at all. "I mean, you'd have to be to take on a bunch of kids who've got problems, right? And not just regular problems – extra problems. Special needs designation, however they decide that."

"Do you know why you were designated special needs?" she asked.

"Yeah," Clint said, turning his head so she could see the hearing aid. "My ears got damaged in the explosion. I can hear pretty good with these, but... that and the fact that I grew up in the f—circus probably had a lot to do with it. I didn't really know anything about a normal home life."

"How else would you describe them?" 

"Dedicated," Clint said. "Strict, sometimes, but fair. They want to keep everything in line and going smoothly because they know if they don't, it'll be chaos. They had me watch the boys for one day one time, and I had to have three friends come over so we outnumbered them to do what they do every day like it's nothing... and sometimes only Mrs. Sullivan is doing it, while Mr. Sullivan is at work."

"But you've never had a problem with them?"

He laughed. He didn't mean to, but he did. "Of course I've had problems with them. What kid hasn't? I came from a life that had... I wouldn't say no structure, but not structure like normal people have. My parents pretty much let me do what I wanted to do, right up until it didn't suit them, and then my dad would beat the shit out of me to get me back in line," Clint said. "I resented everything at first, and we've argued plenty. Sometimes they would forget – especially Mrs. Sullivan – that I'm older than the boys that they're used to dealing with, and I can handle being independent. But sometimes I was just being a teenager and they were just being parents, and we fought because I didn't know how to deal with that. If I was them, I probably would have kicked my ass out when I turned eighteen, but they didn't."

Clint looked at her. "What is this really all about?"

"We're just trying to get a sense of what it's like, living in this house."

"Pretty damn good," Clint said. "If you'd asked me that two years ago, I would have told you it was hell. If you'd asked me a year ago, I probably would have said that it pissed me off, having to live by someone else's rules. Now... we've figured things out more, I think, and it's easier for me to follow the rules because I get more where they're coming from, but also they're more willing to bend them for me because I think they've finally learned to trust that I know what to do, how to handle myself so I don't get myself, or them, in trouble."

"What about discipline?" Officer Cooper asked. 

"What about it?"

"What types of disciplinary methods do they use?"

"What do you mean?" Clint asked. "Like... are you asking if they beat us? Because I'm pretty sure neither of them has ever raised a hand to anyone, ever. They don't have it in them. Believe me, I know what it looks like when someone wants to get violent, even if they're holding themselves back, and I've never seen that in them. Not once."

"What about... restricting you?"

Clint was getting sick of this dance. "Like taking stuff away? TV, video games, that kind of thing? Grounding us?" He knew that wasn't what the officer meant, not really. "Or do you mean do they ever lock us in our rooms without food or water, lock us in the basement, whatever. Because if that's what you're really asking, then I don't know where the hell you ever would have gotten that idea because that's pretty much the craziest thing I've ever heard."

From the way she relaxed when he said it, Clint gathered that was _exactly_ what Officer Cooper was thinking. "I appreciate your candor," she said. "That really helps."

"So are you going to tell me what this is about or not?" Clint asked, but Officer Cooper was already moving on.

He didn't find out what had happened until later that night, when it was only him and Mr. Sullivan still awake, and Devon was gone.

"He threatened your m— Mrs. Sullivan," his foster father said. "Devon did. He got hold of a knife and threatened her. So we called the police."

" _Why?_ " Clint asked. 

"I don't know," Mr. Sullivan said. "I really don't. I think she just told him to go to his room because he'd hit Kevin, but he started to argue that he had to share the room with Kevin so what good would that do because if they were stuck in the room together he could just hit him again, and no one would know. She told him that that if he did that, if he didn't get himself calmed down and start acting right, he would not be allowed to visit his mother this weekend. And he grabbed a knife and said he would kill her, and then they would have no choice but to let him go live with his mother again." He rubbed his temples. "But he knows that's not how it works. He has to know."

"So... you called the cops?"

"I got home while this was happening, yeah, so I called the police. I didn't know what else to do. By the time they arrived he'd put down the knife and gone to his room after all – maybe he realized that it wasn't going to do him any good, being caught like that." Mr. Sullivan shook his head. "We've had a lot of stuff happen in this house, a lot of kids lose it in a lot of ways, but never anything like that."

"What's going to happen to him now?" Clint hadn't seen them take Devon away. He'd gone up to his room because it was loud and chaotic and he really didn't want any part of it. "Did they arrest him?"

Mr. Sullivan shook his head again. "Your—Mrs. Sullivan didn't press charges. So CPS took him instead. He's a potential danger to himself and others. He'll likely be put on a psychiatric hold for three days while they observe him, and if he needs more treatment than that, he'll get it. They'll try to adjust his meds, get him evened out. Then..." But he didn't say what would happen then.

"Will he come back here?" Clint asked.

"No," Mr. Sullivan said. "No, he won't come back here. He'll be placed in a group home, most likely, in a more secure facility. He needs more structure, I think, not less, and we can't provide what he needs. And I don't think it's fair to anyone to have to live with that level of... stress, all the time. If he was willing to make a threat like that once, what's to stop him doing it again, you know?"

"Yeah," Clint said. "Yeah, I get that."

He wondered if it made him a bad person that he was glad that Devon wouldn't be coming back. As much as the two younger boys drove him crazy, it was nothing to how Devon was able to push his buttons without even trying. And maybe the kid would be better off... or maybe he wouldn't. But the Sullivans needed to keep themselves and the other kids safe.

He couldn't help thinking that Devon had known _exactly_ what was going to happen when he pulled that knife, and maybe he'd done it on purpose. Because this had all began when he started getting more frequent visitation with his biological mother, and even though he said he wanted it, Clint got the feeling that maybe he'd realized it wasn't so great, only he didn't know how to back down.

Whatever it was, Clint hoped the kid got the help he needed before he was too messed up to save.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The last chapter of Time for a Sign will post tomorrow. But never fear, the story isn't over yet! Like I did last year, I'm going to start the new school year with a new title, [Say It Now](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2268420/chapters/4982988). So if you've subscribed to this story, don't be alarmed when you don't get an email notifying you of a new chapter. Just check [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/eternaleponine/works) for the new story.


	65. Chapter 65

Clint wasn't sure how Tony had pulled it together, or even if he was _supposed_ to be away from school for the long weekend. Had their orientation finished? Maybe he figured that he didn't need it. Whatever the case, he hadn't expected the (somewhat last minute) invitation to the Stark cabin for Labor Day weekend.

"It's a tradition," Tony said. "You have to come."

"A tradition since when?" Clint asked.

"Since... well, last year, but so what? You have to come."

"I have to ask," Clint said. 

"No you don't," Tony said. "You're eighteen. You're a free man. You can do what you want."

Clint rolled his eyes. "Okay, fine. I'm _going_ to ask." He hadn't really talked to Tony since everything had gone down the Friday before, so of course his friend didn't have any idea how fragile things were in the Sullivan house. It all seemed normal on the surface, but it definitely wasn't.

"I'll email you directions," Tony said. "In case you forgot. You'll be there." And then he hung up, presumably to call the next person on his list to make them an offer they couldn't refuse. 

The only person Clint had really told about what had happened was Natasha, because he told her pretty much everything. She hadn't really known what to say, and he hadn't expected her to. Mostly she'd just said that maybe it was better that it had happened, maybe it was what Devon needed, and Clint had agreed.

Still, the house felt weird without Devon there, even if lately he'd been a constant source of discord, and Connor seemed to vacillate between being upset at the disruption in the status quo, and relieved that there wasn't fighting all the time. It had meant more meltdowns at first, but he seemed to be evening out. Kevin... sometimes it was hard to know what Kevin was thinking or feeling. Mostly he just spent more time in the back yard kicking around a soccer ball. Clint suspected he was probably more glad than not that Devon was gone. The Sullivans had even told him that he could try out for a youth soccer league that was more elite than the town one where everyone got to play no matter how bad they were. Clint knew it cost money, but maybe now with one less mouth to feed they could afford it.

Or maybe they just felt like they owed it to Kevin somehow. 

He didn't ask if they were going to take in another kid to fill Devon's place. He was pretty sure it was too soon for that. And maybe they'd decided that four was too many anyway. 

_Did Tony call you?_ , Natasha texted.

_Yeah. I told him I had to ask._

_Did you? Do you?_

_I can probably just tell them I'm going,_ Clint replied. _But I doubt they'll say no anyway._

And they didn't, when he asked them after dinner that night. "Of course," Mrs. Sullivan said. "Just make sure that you get back at a reasonable time on Monday. You want to be well-rested for the first day of school."

It was a little ironic, coming from her. The dark circles under her eyes told him that she hadn't been well-rested in days. Probably since everything went down with Devon. It would take her a while to recover, Clint figured. And what if Mr. Sullivan hadn't come home when he did? What if she'd tried to talk Devon down and instead she'd gotten him riled up more, and he'd actually done something? It had to be in her head. 

"Have they told you anything about how he's doing?" he asked. 

Mrs. Sullivan shrugged. "They said that he's adjusting. They're still trying to find the right combination of medication. His life has been such a mess lately, they're holding off on giving him any kind of diagnosis beyond depression, which is pretty obvious, but... there may be more going on than we know." She sighed. "He's where he needs to be."

But Clint wasn't sure if she was telling _him_ that, or herself.

"You have fun," she said. "Enjoy the last little bit of summer vacation. You've worked so hard through the rest of it, you deserve a break."

So he headed up to Tony's cabin on Friday night, bringing mostly just clothing for the next few days because everything else would be taken care of there. Natasha sat next to him, and Carol and Jessica were in the back seat because Carol's car was being fixed (again – she really needed a new one but she refused to give up). 

"So what's it like?" Carol asked. "Is it really a cabin?"

"More like log mansion," Natasha said. "But is nice. Relaxing. There is lake to swim and boat in. Not motor boat, but canoe. Kayak. I don't know who will be there this year. Last year it seems like most of school is there at one time, or at least most of senior class. Probably they not arrive until tomorrow."

But when they got there, there were more people than Natasha (and Clint) had expected. Bruce shrugged as he let them in. "Tony wanted to invite people from school," he said, "but a lot of people don't have cars, so there was carpooling and... well, hail hail the gang's all here and all that," he said. "We made sure to save rooms for you guys, though," he said. "You're sharing, obviously."

"All of us?" Jessica asked, sounding horrified.

"No," Bruce said. "No, you and Carol in one room, Clint and Natasha in another."

"Right." Jessica took a deep breath like she was trying to come back from the brink of a heart attack. "Okay."

Bruce showed them where they were staying, then headed off to investigate a noise that had sounded a little too much like an explosion for him to be comfortable with.

The weather was cool that night, and the next day, although sunny, also found the temperature mild. It didn't seem to bother most people, who flung themselves into the water with abandon. The boats were also very popular, and were in the water pretty much constantly as people tried to see which was faster – a canoe or a kayak – and whether who was paddling it made a difference. They seemed to be going about it Mythbusters style, which Clint realized probably shouldn't be all that surprising, considering that a lot of the people there had come from MIT, and were pretty much giant nerds.

Sunday it quickly grew hot and sticky, and instead of racing boats the focus turned to how they could satisfy the needs to eat and drink without ever having to leave the water. A floating bar was created, and they fashioned a snack raft for food that wouldn't become toxic when exposed to the sun for long periods of time.

But unlike the year before, it didn't feel like the beginning of something. This time around, it felt like the end. Sure, the year before Thor and Steve had graduated, but Steve hadn't really _left_ , and Thor had always been a little apart from the rest of the group anyway (or at least that was how Clint justified things in his head). But now Tony and Bruce were going, and Carol would still be around some, but she wouldn't be in school with them. Steve had gotten more caught up in things outside of high school (he hadn't been able to come that weekend because he'd already had plans that he didn't want to break), and it felt like everything was splintering.

Clint watched Natasha as she splashed in the water with Jess, who he could tell was trying to be okay with being surrounded by a bunch of people that she didn't know, but only marginally succeeding. She was better when Carol was around, but Carol... he didn't know where Carol had gotten to, and he probably should have been concerned but she was (almost) as old as he was and she ought to be able to take care of herself. Probably she'd just gone to the bathroom or something, anyway.

Bobbi came and sat next to him, crossing her arms over her knees. "Penny for your thoughts?" she asked.

"My thoughts are worth more than that," Clint said.

"Well, I don't even have a penny," Bobbi admitted. "You realize that moody and brooding was so... how many years ago did Twilight come out?"

"You didn't _actually_ read those books, did you?" Clint asked. 

"I had to know what the fuss was about," Bobbi said. "And then it was sort of like crack. I knew it was bad for me but I just couldn't stop. Also, couldn't really do much for quite a while there. I had to entertain myself somehow."

"Did you read the porn versions?" Clint asked. 

"Ugh. What kind of a girl do you take me for?" Bobbi asked. "Anyway, you're changing the subject."

"Because you can't pay me," Clint said. "I thought this was Deal or No Deal, and it was No Deal."

She laughed. "Fine, Deadward. I'm just going to go have fun with my friends, then. You can join us when you've decided that being a creepy stalker isn't working out for you."

"You'll be blinded by my brilliance," he replied, deadpan.

"Oh, I have no doubt," Bobbi said. "But it's a chance I'm willing to take." She got up again and went to see what the girls were up to.

After a minute, Clint got up and followed, because she was right. Sitting there and brooding, no matter how justified it might feel, wasn't going to make anything better, and he might as well enjoy himself on his last few days... down to less than 48 hours now... of freedom.

That night, he lay in bed with Natasha, tucking back a stray red curl and tracing a finger along her jaw. _Hard to believe it's been a year,_ he signed, a bit awkwardly because he was propped up on one elbow.

 _Not quite a year,_ she pointed out. _Labor Day was later last year._

 _Close enough,_ he said. 

_You don't think it feels like a year?_ , she asked. _It feels like it's been a long time to me._

 _It does,_ Clint said, _but not as long as the year before._

She nodded, conceding the point. _One more, then..._

Then what, she didn't say, and Clint didn't want to think about. One more year, and then... she went one way and he went nowhere, probably, unless he followed her, but...

 _Don't,_ she signed, drawing his attention back to her. _Don't go... wherever you're going. Stay here with me._

 _Okay,_ he said. It's all I really want, he didn't say. She didn't need that kind of burden; she had enough to deal with. And only time would tell. But unlike last year, it no longer felt like they had time and nothing but. 

No, now it felt like it there was a timer ticking away, and each minute crowded into the space between them and pushed them apart.

So he kissed her, because what else could he do, and held on while he still could.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that is the end of Time for a Sign. Check back next week for the beginning of [Say It Now](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2268420/chapters/4982988)!


End file.
